


I Wanna Be Your Partner, Partner

by attimesIalmostdream



Series: Musain Stables [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Horses, M/M, Some Child Abuse, actual animal abuse vs perceived animal abuse, barn au, les amis being ridiculously codependant, lots and lots of equestrian minutia, rough backgrounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 27,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2830274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attimesIalmostdream/pseuds/attimesIalmostdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you're here to tell me how to do my job, then I don't have time for you. If you're here to spout ignorant animal rights bullshit, I have even less time for you."</p><p>Or the one in which Grantaire most certainly is not a cowboy, nor is he a jockey, and horseback riding is, in fact, a sport, and if he hears the words “animal cruelty” one more time, he might actually stab someone with a hoof pick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers:  
> This is my first time writing a Les Mis fic, or any fic really, so please keep that in mind while making any judgements. Constructive criticism would be welcome, but the key word is constructive.  
> Also, I have worked with and ridden horses since I was seven. I lease two horses currently. There is nothing in this fic (pertaining to horses) that I haven't done myself, or watched someone do, or researched extensively (sometimes all of the above). I have a bad habit of assuming everyone understands the terms and sayings I use as part of every day life (i.e. calling a horse lame is not calling him boring or uncool; it means to be favoring one leg/limping) so I'll try to either link explanations or include them in the notes at the end. Also some disciplines use different equipment and techniques, and of course there are lots of variations of terms between countries. Apologies in advance if something I learned in America doesn't match up with what they teach in Europe. 
> 
> VERY IMPORTANT NOTE:  
> I have very little patience for people who condemn riding as being "animal cruelty". Often these people are horrifically misinformed and too self-righteous to care about things like professional opinions and actual facts. To us equestrian folk, they are the equivalent of a white cishet upperclass male trying to have a conversation about oppression. If you have this mindset, this might not be the fic for you, because I vent a little of anger at misguided animal rights activists. Yes, there are parts of the industry that are cruel and corrupt, because the equestrian world is in fact an industry and industries are always subjected to this, and I try to deal with these ambiguities, but to most, good horsemanship is more important than anything else, so do not accuse those who genuinely love their animals and would give anything to never see another horse hurt.  
> If you are more open minded and do not understand why a particular aspect is or is not animal abuse, then PLEASE ask. I love answering questions. I will be more than happy to explain anything and everything. But please be polite.

Grantaire knew, as any self-respecting horse person did, that your barn was your family. Which was why on this particularly sunny Saturday, he was mucking stalls on his morning off instead of enjoying a nice long trail ride.

The things he did for family.

To be fair, he wasn't the only one forgoing a ride in favor of work. All of his fellow barn mates were out in full force, attempting to make the barn look (to quote Valjean) "like you wouldn't get a disease just from breathing in".

Valjean had good reason to be anxious. He hasn't had new clients of the teenage variety in over a year, and now he was welcoming three. And so, they all embarked on a mission to eradicate any trace of dust and dirt the morning the new clients were meant to arrive. Which would seem like irresponsible procrastination, except if they had done it any earlier all their hard work would have been for naught.

Sometimes, Grantaire really hates Barn Rule Number One (which is that nothing stays clean for more than a few hours. Nothing.)

His adoptive family flowed around him, too preoccupied with their own respective jobs to offer much more than an excited smile as they bustled past.

"New people," their smiles said. "Finally!"

Jehan was sitting on one of the trunks, untangling a sprawling mess of wraps as Musichetta rolled them at an awe-inspiring rate. Nearby, Joly and Bossuet were cleaning pieces of assorted tack. Marius was folding laundry. Cosette and Eponine were each sweeping from opposite ends of the main aisle, racing to see who could get to the center first. Gavroche had been charged with folding blankets, so of course he was no where to be seen (though the blankets were, in fact, hanging nearly on the doors). Bahorel and Feuilly were helping Grantaire with the stalls, the latter taking advantage of the pair's size and strength by letting them run the wheelbarrows back and forth to the muck pile and fetch bags of fresh shavings.

Valjean, of course, was in the thick of it all, stacking the hay bales so that they didn't seem like they'd tip over if someone (most likely Bossuet) sneezed the wrong way.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of hard manual labor, nine disgustingly sweaty teenagers stood in the center of an otherwise spotless barn. "Take a picture, everyone," Bahorel announced, face light up with anticipation even as he wiped an entire clump of dirt from his forehead. "It's the last time this place is gonna look this nice."

Cosette whapped him over the back of his head. "Hush, you."

"I like the dirt better," Gavroche drawled. Grantaire finally spotted the little deserter perched on the stairs to the loft, grimy despite having done no actual work. Grantaire sighed.

"Come on, let's go upstairs and clean up."

Since Grantaire did in fact live in a barn (or above one, more accurately) he felt no shame at the fact that everyone was witnessing the state of his room. Dirty clothes billowed out from all corners of his living space; paint skittered across every surface; luckily, Grantaire ate most of his meals at the Big House with Valjean, Cosette, and the Thenardiers, or else dirty plates would have piled up as well.

Oh well. He could keep a barn clean. That's more than anyone should expect from him, anyways.

He listened as his barn mates fought for space in his admittedly small bathroom. Everyone had brought an extra change of work clothes on the off-chance there wouldn't be time to go home and clean up (no one wanted to miss the arrival). They had all spent plenty of time in his room and didn't even blink at the mess.

(Feuilly: I think I got tan... Never mind. It was just dirt")

Jehan squeezed their way out of the crush of people first, plopping down on Grantaire's bed.

"New people," they exclaimed, running a pilfered brush through their long, chestnut hair in an extremely Disney-like manner. "Can you imagine?!" Grantaire said nothing.

(Bossuet: "Ouch! Cosette, play fair!")

Jehan's expression softened. "I know you tend to expect the worst, but at least try to be optimistic. You were doubtful when Marius first came too, and now look."

As if on cue, there was a loud crash and then Marius Pontmercy was on the ground, having taken out an easel that Grantaire had left near the bathroom. A poorly thought-out decision on his part, really.

Grantaire raised his eyebrow at Jehan. "I'm not entirely sure that was a good example."

(Marius: "Heeeeeeeeey. Eponiiiine, Grantaire is being meeeean.")

"Oh hush you know I love you," Grantaire called back, huffing out a laugh. "My Sun and Stars and all that."

"If Marius is Khal Drogo, does that make me the khaleesi?" Cosette asked, twisting her hair in to a  perfectly messy bun as she exited the bathroom. With her long, silvery hair and big blue eyes, she most certainly looked the part; those who knew her knew that she had the strength of Daenerys also.

"And Eponine is the dragon to go with," Bahorel added, slinging his arm around her shoulder. He looked much more like Drogo than Marius did, with his dark skin and imposing frame, and standing next to the tiny Cosette the similarity was even more striking. Grantaire made a mental note to paint him as such.

Once everyone lost about ten pounds in dirt and dried sweat, they all started to change into clean clothes. Someone might have found it odd that a room full of people of multiple genders felt comfortable stripping down in front of each offer, but, well. They had all changed in worse places. (Ie: the back of Valjean's four horse trailer. With the horses in it).

Finally, Cosette deemed them all presentable. "Now remember," she warned, her eyes like steel even though her smile was sugar. "If you get slobber, snot, spit or dirt anywhere on yourself or on the barn, I will kill you... And then hide your stirrups for a week."

Everyone groaned.

Once down in the barn, Grantaire slipped into the stall right across from the stairs, hoping that everyone would have the decency to at least pretend not to notice. He was greeted by a puff of warm air that ruffled his hair, and his face split into its first real grin all morning.

"Hey silly," he whispered, rubbing his knuckles against the mare's velvety nose, pressing his thumb over her pink snip before reaching up to tug one of her ears. She snorted into his shirt in retaliation.

This was Asteria, light of his life, queen of his heart, his true sun and stars. When Grantaire first named her for the goddess of falling stars, she had been mostly black with the vaguest hint of dapples; now, seven years later, ink has given way to soot and silver. In a few years still, silver might melt into snow, and one day she won't have any dark at all. Grantaire was determined to see that day. Looking at her, he was often reminded of the poem From the Dark Tower. "The night whose sable breast relieves the stark/ White stars is no less lovely being dark." His own dark and nimble fingers found the scars that scored her flank, long since healed but still a visible reminder of the life she once led. He absentmindedly touched his shoulder, where raised flesh drew similar shapes.

When they met, she had been two and he ten, both trembling and wide-eyed and lost in the steady kindness of Valjean. Now they were nine and seventeen, and they were no longer afraid.

(Grantaire felt his stomach drop at the unmistakable sound of a horse truck coming up the drive.)

At least, he hoped they weren't. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horse Info Relevant to the Chapter:
> 
> 1\. Tack is equipment, like saddles and bridles and such. Tacking up means to get ready to ride by putting the equipment on the horse, and untacking means to take it all off. Either should take about half an hour, even more if it's hot out and you need to wash your horse.  
> 2\. Erase any idea you have of a white horse from your mind. True white horses are albino. Most "white" horses are not. Most horses who look white are actually grey (their skin is black under their fur- a true white horse would have pink skin). Greys are born dark and grow lighter over time, so one horse might go from black to steel to dappled to flea-bitten to "white" as they grow older. Asteria would be somewhere between steel and dappled, because she's still pretty young.  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gray_(horse) for more reading  
> 3\. A snip is a facial marking that is basically a splotch on the horse's nose. It can be white or pink, if it's on an area with little to no hair.  
> Face markings ref: http://www.theequinest.com/colors/markings/face/
> 
> Also- barns and anything in them get real dirty real fast this is a fact of life never bring something to a barn that you wouldn't want covered in dust and horse slobber. And yes, barns can be pretty codependent, especially barns where you're expected to work as well as ride. Nothing brings a group of people together like blood, sweat and tears (and exhaustion). Of course, I amplified this because Les Amis friendship is very important


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where we start getting into the whole animal abuse thing.

Luckily, Cosette only frowned at Grantaire's shirt when he joined the rest of his friends at the front of the barn. They were all waiting by the door in anticipation; it was almost hilarious, the way they resembled a group of eavesdropping children.

"Shouldn't we try to act natural?" Grantaire asked.

Eponine scoffed, "As if any of you would be able to 'act natural'." With her feral grin and glittering eyes, she really did look like a dragon. When she spoke she spat fire and wisdom in equal measures. If Cosette was the sun then Eponine was the new moon, and Marius was the poor sap who fell in love with both. The distinctive sound of a trailer braking distracted them from their banter.

Finally, now, the moment they've all been waiting for. The silver and scarlet truck hissed and sputtered as it came to a stop. Grantaire could see the the barn's sign reflected in the metallic surface: Musain Stables. The driver got out and clasped hands with Valjean; all horse people knew each other, especially if they've been in the business a long time. Grantaire and Feuilly stepped forward to help, mostly out of habit. As the self-proclaimed grooms of the barn, they were typically the ones loading and unloading the truck for various horse shows.

The ramp came down first, and then fire. That's all Grantaire could think of when he sees the horse, fire and revolution and blood. Controlling him with a lead rope was as effective as tying the gates of Versailles with yarn. The sunlight burned where it hit his coat, turning chestnut hair into flame and making Grantaire's fingers itch for paint.

Feuilly turned to him with a look that said, _you can take this one._

Fuck you too, Feuilly.

Sighing, he went to take the lead from the driver, who might have protested except he was still focused on the 17 hands of German (probably) war horse who was currently leading him in a stunning rendition of ring-around-the-rosie. Grantaire already knew how that one ended, and he wasn't looking forward to watching it again. He took a moment to remember that the man was in fact a professional and that he should proceed with extreme caution. And then, of course, he ducked right under the driver's arm and grabbed the horse's halter. Because he makes good choices.

Quickly, he tugged the horse's head down and pressed a hand against his chest, using pressure to force him to back up. One step, two, three, finally the horse dropped his head and relented. Grantaire could still feel the tension coiled in each muscle, however, and knew that anything could set the horse off again.

So, of course, that's the exact moment someone slammed a car door.

Grantaire had just enough time to think _Oh, shit_ before the horse ploughed right through him. Luckily, he managed to keep both a grip on the lead rope and most of his balance, so all it took was a sharp tug to change the horse's momentum... Right back to him. He brought his arm up just in time to block a potential bite and once again grabbed the halter.  "Enough," he growled, drawing himself up to his full height, which, admittedly, wasn't very impressive but whatever, it worked. Grantaire took a minute to do some ground work, because every moment is an opportunity for training, and god did this horse need it. Stepping into the horse's space, forcing the horse to move out of his: a familiar, grounding exercise that forced him to push away his fury. _You aren't angry at the horse,_ he reminded himself. Finally, the horse was standing quietly and Grantaire trusted himself to speak.

"Why the fuck," he asked, looking at the driver,  "did you not drug him."

A new voice broke through the haze, one that caused both him and the horse to whip their heads towards it in a way that might have been comical if any sense of humor hadn't been swallowed by rage. Grantaire thought, _oh no, he's hot_ , before he actually started listening to the words spewing from his (very nice) lips.

"I refuse to control my horse through drugs. It's vile, and cruel, and-"

"It's the safest way to transport an upset horse. God, don't you know _anything_?" The only thing preventing Grantaire from screaming was the still-explosive animal beside him. "He could have hurt himself and every other horse on that truck!"

"I don't need some kid telling me how to take care of my horse!"

That shut Grantaire up. He reeled back, as if the words had physically struck him.

Movement caught his eye. Bahorel stepped forward, incensed, only to be stopped by Bossuet's grip on his shirt; but no one was there to hold back Cosette, who marched right up and slapped the stranger across the face. She might have wanted everything to go perfectly for Valjean, but, well. Your barn was your family.

As much as Grantaire would love to watch this stranger be eviscerated by his tiny, easily underestimated barn mate, he would much rather go hide in Asteria's stall and never come out. And anyway, he had a job to do.

Grantaire put the horse in one of the stalls he had spent the morning preparing. He figured it'd be best to let him settle down a little before he'd attempt to take off his wraps and check for injuries. Feuilly was already moving in one of the other horses (a gorgeous ink-colored warmblood with four white stockings underneath bright teal wraps. Grantaire wondered how that managed to fly in what clearly was a top-notch show barn). Musichetta entered the barn with the third and final horse, a trembling bay mare, slim and leggy and a hot blood if Grantaire ever saw one. A thoroughbred, most likely, though he would have been surprised if she was off the track. Grantaire guessed the fear was due to being stuck on a truck for god knows how long while the chestnut tried to kick the walls down, and his mouth tightened even more. 'Chetta handed over the lead rope with a worried look, but thankfully refrained from commenting.

Alright, Grantaire told himself. Priorities. Calm the horse down first. Then worry about yourself.

Once the mare was set up on cross ties (still wide-eyed and jigging) Grantaire got to work. He started by running his hands along her neck, whispering nonsense until she began to settle. He then moved on to rubbing the small hollow just under and in front of her ears with his thumbs.

"Excuse me," said someone behind him, in the same quiet voice Jehan used when they knew they accidentally snuck up on someone. Grantaire turned around to see a boy around his age, though significantly longer and lankier. Dark hair, dark skin, kind eyes- if pets looked like their owners, then the mare surely belonged to this boy.

"I'm Combeferre, and this is Willow." He said her name the same way Marius would say Cosette or Eponine, and Grantaire decided he liked him enough to share both his given name and his nickname.

Combeferre pointed to where Grantaire is still rubbing Willow's face. "What are you doing?" His voice was genuinely curious, so R moved over to show him the spot.

"This is her [TMJ](http://www.atlantaequine.com/images/tmj_location.png), or temporomandibular joint. Massaging it is like massaging your temples. It'll help her calm down."

As if on cue, Willow sighed deeply and smacked her lips. Combeferre smiled. "I can see that. Unfortunately, she's no where near as good at dealing with Enjolras's horse as I am with Enjolras."

Awkward silence.

"I'm sorry for him. He can be a bit of a..."

"Asshole?"

"I was going to say force of nature, but considering today, I think asshole is a better description."

Grantaire nodded and crouched down to take off Willow's wraps (hunter green, thank god. At least _someone_ knew how to dress their horse properly.)

"To be fair, he had just found out that our old trainer had been keeping the poor horse more or less perpetually sedated. I mean, that's not really an excuse, but it's an explanation."

Grantaire grunted. Once he reached the end of the last wrap, he began to run his fingers over each of her legs, paying extra attention to the delicate splint bones. Thankfully, there was no heat or swelling. He felt his anger fade into irritation.

"Was your barn full-service?" Grantaire asked. Combeferre looked almost embarrassed as he nodded. "Alright. Eponine!" She was the only one who appeared to not be doing anything. He prayed that whatever anger she held for the first boy, Enjolras or whatever, she wouldn't take out on Combeferre. He genuinely liked him, despite his taste in friends. "Can you get Combeferre here set up? I gotta take care of _el Caballo de Diablo_." She rolled her eyes at the title and shooed him away.

When he saw who was waiting at the horse's stall, however, he almost turned right back around to tell Eponine that never mind, he can teach Combeferre. But his desire to take care of the horse and make sure there were no injuries won out. Damn you, Valjean, for giving him a work ethic.

"If you're here to tell me how to do my job, then I don't have time for you. If you're here to spout ignorant animal rights bullshit, I have even less time for you," Grantaire said preemptively. Even he was surprised at the steel in his voice, but, well, it wasn't entirely undeserved.

"Listen, I'm really sorry for what I said, I was way out of line and I had no right to say any of it," the other boy rushed to say. His words practically tripped over each other on the way out.

"Did Combeferre tell you to say that?" Grantaire kept his face carefully blank, not wanting to snap and start screaming again or (the far more embarrassing option) let on how much the words had actually hurt.

"No. Well, yes. He and Coufeyrac made it very clear that I needed to apologize, but I already knew." Oh for fucks sake, he actually looked genuinely ashamed. No. Grantaire refused to give in that easily, no matter how pretty he was. (Even though the light shined off his golden hair in a way that every painter dreamed of. He was Apollo and his horse was Aries, and Grantaire was so, so, fucked.)

"I'm Enjolras, by the way."

"Bless you," Grantaire says, because he's an asshole. Whatever. The other boy had insulted his professionalism. Grantaire reserved the right to be an asshole.

"... You're supposed to tell me your name, too."

He debated with himself for a second but eventually took pity. He was getting soft. "It's Grantaire. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

Enjolras nodded. "His name is Patria, by the way," he said, and then finally walked away.

Valjean found him twenty minutes later, attempting to take off the wraps while trying to avoid getting kicked.

"R, I'm putting you in charge of Enjolras."

One of the things Grantaire loved about Valjean was his straightforwardness. No lead ins, no twisted speeches to introduce an unpleasant topic. But sometimes (like now) that meant being so caught off guard that you forget what you're doing and for Grantaire, that meant nearly getting clipped by a flying hoof. He had an overwhelming urge to whine  _but, Daaaaaaaad_.

Valjean held up his hand, halting whatever protest he might have made. "You are the best suited for working with Patria, and you and I both know that the rider's involvement is key. Regardless of his skill as a rider, Enjolras knows very little about horses on the ground, and he needs to learn if he has any hope of enjoying himself here. I know he was unnecessarily cruel today, but I truly believe he means well, misguided though it may seem.... And Feuilly has Bahorel and his classes to worry about."

Grantaire wanted so badly to argue, but he felt he owed it to Valjean to at least try; plus the man had already thwarted his first course of action, which would have been to ask for Feuilly to do it instead. In any case, he really did trust his judgement, and if he felt that this was the best decision for both Patria and Enjolras, then Grantaire wasn't about to complain.

"Just think of him as a project horse," Valjean grinned, patting his shoulder before turning to go take care of whatever other business he had. Paperwork, most likely. "Oh, and take your horse for a ride. You both need it."

Well. It was about goddamn time someone noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patria is a german "war horse" because I adore german warmbloods. Personally, I think they're the most awe-inspiring horses, but I'm also terribly biased.
> 
> The TMJ is just where the upper and lower mandibles meet. 
> 
> Wraps (standing bandage/pillow wraps, depending on who you ask) are used for a lot of different things, but mostly commonly for protection when shipping and to prevent swelling after hard work or an injury. Typically used on the lower leg, unless you have to get real creative because of an injury (I've had to wrap a horse's thigh before. Almost got kicked in the face.)  
> Also, most barns, especially show barns, tend to be very conservative when it comes to colors. Hunter green, black, navy or maroon are pretty standard. One of my horses, the baby of the family, decided to destroy his wraps after being left alone for 10 minutes at a horse show and we had to buy bright teal wraps to replace them. My trainer was so not pleased. 
> 
> Splint bones: tiny, easily broken bones on the back/inside of the horse's legs. "Popping a splint" is a common injury.
> 
> About use of drugs:  
> I'm in the camp of Grantaire, which is "sedatives are important for safety reasons but yeah overuse is not such a good thing". A scared horse can do a lot of damage to himself and the people/horses around him. Obviously the vet needs to use sedatives. Most horse show associations are extremely strict about the use of both legal and illegal drugs, testing the winners and keeping grand prix horses in separate, heavily guarded tents. But sedatives are only a temporary solution, if it's a behavioral thing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, lot more horse stuff here whoops. I got character development at the end though. 
> 
> Question: Are you guys keeping up with everything? Please let me know if there's something where I'm like "oh yeah that's totally a term everyone knows" but it's definitely not. (my friends yell at me for this all the time, trust me I'm used to it. I won't act like you're an idiot for not knowing it I promise I just grew up with these words as a basic part of my vocabulary and literally can not tell if it's a horse person thing or a regular person thing)  
> But like is everyone good with colors? Bay= brown with black mane/tail and chestnut=reddish brown? Breeds? I say warmblood/hotblood a lot- hotblood means a really high energy, flighty, often delicately built breed like thoroughbred or arabian, coldbloods are draft horses like a Clydesdale who are really heavy and often really chill, and warmbloods are the inbetweeners who are quick, powerful and typically (but not always) have good temperament. Mares= female horses (reputation for being moody but eh) geldings= neutered male horses, stallions= male horses and are obnoxious as all getout they make schooling rings hell. You measure horses in hands, which is 4 inches. Ponies are below 14.2 hh (14 hands and 2 inches) at the withers (like the shoulder- where the neck meets the rest of the body) they are not, contrary to popular belief, baby horses. Anyway on with the story

When Enjolras showed up at the barn the next day, Grantaire was halfway through braiding Cosette's hair. She was surprisingly bad at putting it up on her own; Grantaire had been doing it for her since they were both ten. Jehan, never one to be left out of a braiding chain, was weaving flowers into Grantaire's thick curls.

Enjolras stood there uncomfortably, very obviously trying not to stare. Grantaire mentally shrugged. He wasn't about to be embarrassed for his family.

"Alright," he said, tying off the end of Cosette's braid. She beamed at him before shooting a glare at Enjolras (Grantaire was only a little smug when he winced). "Let's get moving."

He led the way to Asteria's stall, because if he was going to be stuck with Enjolras for several hours he wanted some source of sanity. Seeing the look on Enjolras's face as he started to put the halter on of a horse that wasn't his own, he explained, "Patria is no where near ready for you to handle him safely. I have no desire to see someone killed by their own horse. Asteria, at least, I can trust to be patient." As if to prove how sweet she was, she gently nuzzled his cheek and hair (although he suspected a few flowers might have gone missing as well.)

Once they were set up on the crossties, Grantaire turned to Enjolras. "Do you know how to groom?" He asked, holding out a curry comb. Enjolras's frown was answer enough.

Grantaire sighed. Valjean so owed him.

One clean horse and several arguments later ("I know what a [bell-boot](http://www.marquisboot.com/images/2007/Bell_Boots.jpg) is, Grantaire." "But can you put one on?" "..."), they finally made it down to the rings. There were two main rings cut into a hill so that lessons and hacks could run simultaneously, and a smaller pen for groundwork. A green, sloping field lay just beyond the bottom ring, dotted with logs and brush and colorful standards. Behind that was nothing but forest and trails. The sight was made even more enjoyable by the perfect balance of sunlight and breeze. Grantaire gave Enjolras a minute to take it all in.

After grabbing the lunge line from its hook by the gate, he led the three of them to the center of the ring and demonstrated how to loop the chain through the halter's noseband. He expected a complaint about the use of a chain (even though, like most things, it is only cruelty if used incorrectly) but Enjolras said nothing, instead just watching quietly.

"You never roll the lunge line, always fold it. That way if something happens, it isn't wrapped around your hand. Release it in sections as you go. Hold it in your leading hand." Grantaire then shooed him over to the rail. "Always start small, and only get firmer if you have to."

To demonstrate, he clucked with his tongue and opened his left arm, allowing Asteria to begin walking counterclockwise. He let out sections of the line as she spiraled out until she was on a twenty meter circle. When he clucked again, she moved into the trot, tossing her head around and snorting playfully. Grantaire watched her motion for any sign of lameness but thankfully there was nothing aside from the typically stiffness of just warming up.

"Lunging is more than just trying to get the bucks out. It can teach the horse to respond to voice commands and body language, or help improve their balance and fitness. You shouldn't lunge for much more than 20 minutes, though. It puts too much stress on the horse's legs." When another cluck only succeeded in making her trot faster, he let out a growl and flicked his arm at her hindquarters. She bucked into the canter, because why have smooth transitions when you could have fun. Grantaire smiled despite himself. "If I were using a whip, I would have just lifted it up from the ground towards her hip, which is where another horse would have pushed or nipped her to go forward... Don't give me that look, Apollo. Whips should never, ever be used as punishment. If they even touch the horse at all, it's pressed against them to encourage movement in a specific direction. It's an aid, not a weapon." He couldn't even see Enjolras, but he would have bet money that they were about five seconds from another argument. "That being said, Asteria hates whips." Grantaire realized he was frowning at the scars on her flank and quickly refocused on the task at hand, bringing her back down to a trot with a gentle tug on the lunge line and a soft woah. He asked her for the canter again, to prove that she can in fact transition nicely, before slowing her all the way down to the walk and reeling her back into the center. Her nostrils flared, but her ears were pricked and her head was high and her coat looked barely damp despite the climbing heat; she was far from tired.

"Alright, your turn," Grantaire said, holding out the lunge line. Enjolras nearly fell off the fence.

"You want me to do that?" He asked,  doubt written on his face in bold, capital letters.

"No, I expect you to do it," Grantaire replied, because even if they're the same age and even if Enjolras was significantly bigger and taller, Grantaire still outranked him. Metaphorically. And literally, if they wanted to get into herd dynamics, but that discussion would only confirm that he had no life outside of the barn. But anyway, Grantaire was given a job, and that job was to teach both Enjolras how to not get killed by a horse and Patria how to not kill anyone. And he couldn't do either unless Enjolras _took the goddamn lunge line_. (Okay, so maybe he's exaggerating. And it's not necessarily just about the lunge line. The point still stands.)

Finally, though, Enjolras accepted responsibility, and after Grantaire reviewed the stance and grip and then slipped to a safe spot on the fence, Enjolras asked Asteria to walk on.

And Asteria, being the little shit she was, turned on the forehand and stared right at Enjolras, not moving and blinking at him with her big, innocent eyes. The distressed look Enjolras threw him was priceless.

Grantaire was so proud.

After giving hay ("Mabel needs four flakes, Enjolras, not five.") and watering ("Kindly point the hose into the bucket when you turn it on so I don't have to change again.") and sweeping ("No, we cannot use a leaf blower. You'll give someone an asthma attack. Besides, brooms build character."), Enjolras was exhausted. He wasn't like Combeferre, who had read countless books and followed the vet around like a duckling, or Courfeyrac, who actually managed to pass Spanish due to his insistence on making friends with everyone, including the grooms, even if they spoke very limited English. By the time he was old enough to realize that _hmm, maybe he should start to figure some stuff out for himself_ , he felt far too awkward to ask for help. It felt like intrusion. He told himself that the grooms were professionals, they had work to do, they didn't have time to fix his inevitable beginner's mistakes.

And yet here he was, fucking up Grantaire's entire day.

Grantaire, with his perpetually messy hair and ridiculously blue eyes, moved through the barn with the sort of ease Enjolras couldn't even imagine achieving his own house (though that may say more about his family than himself.) Grantaire would slip smoothly under the stall guard; Enjolras would hit his head. Enjolras would have to walk all the way to the base of the hose to fix a kink; Grantaire would untwist it just by flicking his wrist. He was quiet and loud at the same time, always moving deliberately, careful not to miscommunicate with his body but never taking up more space that he needed.

But most of all, Enjolras was most fascinated by the way he interacted with the other riders. With the younger kids in Valjean's lessons, he was patient and encouraging, yet as unyielding as he was with Enjolras. ("Grantaaaaaire, Sage won't let me put his bridle on. Can you do it?" "I can watch while _you_ do it.") He gravitated toward the other teenagers. He never went anywhere in the barn without tugging on Cosette's braid, or slinging his arms around Joly and Bossuet, or bumping Feuilly's shoulder as he passed. Eponine would make faces at him; Bahorel would make jokes. Most of Jehan's flowers had been replaced by hay and shavings, but there was still a sprig of lavender hidden in his dark curls.

When it came time for lunch, they all trekked up to what was apparently known as the Big House, where Cosette, Eponine and Gavroche lived with Valjean. Grantaire explained that they always had Sunday lunch together, and there was an obvious familiarity in the way Marius pulled out a stack of plates, the way Musichetta produced a tray of sandwiches from the fridge, the way Joly ordered everyone to wash their hands. Courfeyrac was already at the center of the commotion, helping to set the table and joking with Gavroche. Enjolras and Combeferre shared an uncomfortable look; they had never felt as relaxed around new groups of people as their friend, and their old barn had not been nearly as close as this one obviously was. In fact, the trio were really the only people who really saw each other outside of the ring.

They sat at a Frankenstein table, various pieces of smoothed wood having been added on, it appeared, as the lunch crowd grew. The mismatched chairs were comfortably squished together so that no one was knocking elbows but it was no trouble to reach over and steal the food of their neighbor, which seemed to be something of a habit for these friends.

(Eponine: "Put that breadstick back where it came from or so help me, Bahorel, I will cut your hand off with this butter knife.")

Valjean had come just as everyone started eating, taking a seat at the head of the table; already it seemed odd to Enjolras that he would sit anywhere else. Some people were just meant for the head of the table.

Courfeyrac, of course, started the conversation by asking how everyone came to be at Musain Stables, because he was obsessed with hearing people's stories. He never talked to anyone without asking for their story. Enjolras was convinced he was a puppy in a past life. Something curly-haired and flamboyant, like a poodle.

"Papa adopted me," Cosette began, nodding at Valjean. "When I was about eight, I think. The barn was owned by someone else, a wonderful old man by the name of Fauchelevent, who let us stay in the little house while Papa worked with the horses. It was purely a rescue place then; there were no lessons which meant there were no other kids to play with. Fauchelevent retired a year or so later, leaving Papa in charge of the farm. And then when I was ten we found R asleep in the hayloft."

"It was winter. I was cold. The barn was warm," Grantaire complained, but Enjolras didn't miss the way his gaze slid over to the newcomers, face guarded.

"And Valjean relocated Gav and me a year after that," Eponine said, smoothly turning the attention to herself. "My parents fostered Cosette for a few years when we were little. They had a barn too, but let's just say they were on the shadier side of the business. When they finally got arrested, we came to live here. And then one day Feuilly waltzed in. Back then he was a ridiculously gangly, dorky fourteen year old-"

"To be fair, I hadn't eaten in a few days," the afore mentioned ginger broke in, who was now nineteen and had filled out his apparently scrawny limbs quite nicely. "I was looking for a job, but very few places were willing to hire a kid. My family had lived near a farm back in Poland, so I had a little bit of experience with horses, and I hoped to at least be able to bargain my into a hot meal and a bed. And Valjean was kind enough to give me both permanently. I live in the little house now, and take classes at the community college."

"I was having trouble finding a way to generate interest," Valjean added. "No one was adopting, and while we weren't lacking for money, we weren't making any either. Feuilly suggested giving lessons, cheap enough for kids who couldn't afford to go to a fancy show barn and lease a pony."

"Which is how Joly and I found this place," continued Bossuet, because of course they were a package deal before they even got to the barn.

"And then I moved here from California," Musichetta explained. "I heard that this was the cheapest place to board a horse... No one mentioned the boys." She smiled adoringly at her partners, who sat on either side of her.

"I got kicked out of my old barn for punching the asshole who was hitting on one of the grooms. She couldn't do anything about it without losing her job," frowned Bahorel. "But I'm glad I did it. It gave me the chance to meet these nerds. And I found Jehan at school-"

"So I visited the barn and never left." They smiled wistfully. "Luckily, everyone was quite open to the whole gender thing."

"And then Marius stumbled in last year," Cosette concluded, squeezing her boyfriend's hand. They were so sickeningly cute that even Enjolras, who was practically blind when it came to emotions, could recognize their intense love. It was like watching a Disney movie.

"Wow." Courfeyrac looked around the table, grinning in amazement. "You guys are so much cooler than my old barn!"

Enjolras and Combeferre shared a look. (Enjolras: Your boyfriend is a dork. Combeferre: I know.)

"They found you in the hayloft?!" Courf continued, staring at Grantaire excitedly. The smaller boy's smile dimmed, and he curled in on himself slightly.

"Sorry, you must be a level three friend to access tragic backstory," he joked apologetically, but his eyes were defensive, like a wounded horse backed into a corner. Courfeyrac nodded, not pressing, and turned to Musichetta instead to ask about her triad relationship. Enjolras didn't miss how Grantaire relaxed only when Eponine leaned her shoulder briefly against his and might have thought they were together if he hadn't accidentally stumbled upon her and Cosette making out in the tack room earlier that day.

The relationships at this barn were quite unconventional, apparently. Enjolras did not mind at all.

"So now you know our stories," Jehan said, breaking through the chatter with little more than a quiet voice and a sweet smile. "What is yours? How did you happen upon our little farm?"

Courf, of course, spoke for the three of them, and he started out by blaming Enjolras. "He had found Patria at an auction and fell in love, and demanded that our trainer buy him. Little did he know that the poor horse had been kept drugged seven ways from Sunday to hide the fact that he was practically unbroken. So when he found out a month or so later, of course, he got into a huge fight with the trainer, and then with his parents when they called him ungrateful, so they said they wouldn't shovel money into a crazy horse, and basically Valjean is the only trainer in the area who lets you work for feed and board. Combeferre and I just quit on principle."

The room was silent when the story ended, and Enjolras wished he could sink into the floorboards. It wasn't that he minded Courfeyrac’s version, since he truly believed he did the right thing coming to Musain (even more so now that he saw how close and kind everyone was) but he definitely could have done without the staring.

"Well," Valjean stood tactfully, forcing everyone's attention to snap back to him. "I believe I have an afternoon lesson to teach. If you'll excuse me."

His departure prompted everyone else into action, clearing the table and washing the dishes. This too was done with familiarity and routine, and there were even arguments over whose turn it was to wash, dry or stack. Grantaire somehow wiggled his way out of helping and grabbed Enjolras by the arm, leading him away from the controlled chaos. Enjolras allowed himself to be pulled deeper into Valjean's home, not quite having time to truly look around but still noticing the photographs that adorned the walls. At first they appeared to be just of Cosette, but as they went further they were filled with more and more people, until Grantaire stopped them in front of a giant group photo of everyone on horseback. Enjolras recognized Asteria and Mabel, Bahorel's [Belgian Draft](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/95/Belgian_draft_horse2.jpg), as well as some other horses that he had spent the day with but hadn't quite learned their names yet, but then Grantaire started talking.

"Listen," he began, obviously uncomfortable and a little bit... guilty? "I'm sorry I got mad yesterday. I didn't realize what Patria had been through, and I want you to know that I absolutely do not approve of using sedatives as a long-term way of controlling a horse, they should be used for safety reasons only, and I understand why you yelled at me and-"

"I'm sorry too," Enjolras interrupted, because Grantaire wasn't the one who was truly in the wrong. "I know why you got angry, I should have known this place was different, and if I had stopped to think about it instead of just reacting to the word 'drug' then I probably would have gotten what you meant and-"

"I think we got off on the wrong start," said Grantaire. He held out his hand. "Hello. My name is Grantaire. People call me R."

"My name is Enjolras. It's nice to meet you. This is ridiculously cliche." Nonetheless, he shook the offered hand and grinned.

R shrugged, not particularly embarrassed. "It works in movies, apparently."

They stood for a moment in an almost-comfortable silence, and just as Enjolras opened his mouth to speak he heard Courf calling for him and remembered that the three of them had carpooled. He made a face.

"I have to go," he said apologetically.

"Alright. Hey, be here at three-ish tomorrow?" Grantaire asked in a way that suggested he better have a pretty good excuse to say no.

"But it's a Monday?" Most barns were closed on Mondays, to give the horses and trainers at least one guaranteed rest day each week. Apparently, this was not a good excuse.

"The horses still have to eat," Grantaire quirked an eyebrow at him, but there was more of a smile behind his eyes now. Enjolras laughed sheepishly.

"Fair enough," he said. "I'll be there."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I got enough character development in under the horse stuff.  
> A bell boot literally looks like a bell. It goes over the horse’s front hooves to protect their heel from overreaching, or forging. Since horses have both back legs and front legs, they can give themselves a flat tire (you know when you’re walking in a crowd and someone steps on the back of your shoe?) and pull their own shoe, or worse, actually injure themselves. Farrier/vet bills get expensive, so bell boots are a pretty great invention. They make velcro ones now, which are pretty easy to get on, but I personally think the old pull on rubber ones are the best. They don't fall off. Plus watching kids struggle with putting them on/taking them off is hilarious. 
> 
> Lunging- basically making the horse go in circles at the end of a very long rope (except more complicated). Good tool for simply getting some energy out or doing some more complex training. I’ll repeat that lunge whips are tools, not weapons. You would never hit the horse with a whip- if you touch the horse at all, it’s all light pushes and gestures. But some horses hate the lunge whip from either a past bad experience or just general spookishness, and some horses don’t need it at all, and a horse that might have needed it last week might not need one the next time you lunge, so I always start out without one. Also (and this goes for riding, or any interaction you have with a horse) always start out small. You don’t want to go waving the whip around and yelling if all your horse needs is a cluck, because then they’re gonna be real pissed.  
> Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJqkM6d_4Ow&feature=youtu.be  
> Article: https://confidenthorsemanship.wordpress.com/2013/06/08/how-to-lunge-your-horse-successfully-2/
> 
> Literally everything Grantaire says to Enjolras is something I’ve said teaching a new kid how to work a shift. Yes, we do use this ancient technology called a broom for literally everything. Some barns use leaf blowers at the end of the day to clean the aisles, but our barn (and many others) has a few horses with COPD, which is like asthma, so all the dust blowers kick up really isn’t good for them. Also, sweeping builds character.  
> I think thats it. If you wanna know anything else, feel free to ask. Thanks to everyone who’s read it so far, you guys make my day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for supporting this fic so far, you guys have been great. This chapter gets a little ramble-y, but I wanted to show Grantaire's headspace. Basically this chapter is all R, Eponine, Cosette and Feuilly friendship.

Mondays meant sleepovers with Cosette and Eponine and Feuilly. They meant junk food and cuddling and animated movies. Yes, Mondays were long and difficult and some weeks he would feel a little overwhelmed because everyone, even Feuilly, had classes to go to and Valjean had the day off (though he would always, always help if Grantaire asked, because he's wonderful, but deserved a day off, so Grantaire tried really hard to never ask) but it's calming, too. Quiet, regular. The barn was filled only with sighs and snorts and the rustling of hay, and Grantaire wasn't expected to speak or explain or use his words at all.

Monday afternoons were easier, because Feuilly was home and he had never asked any of these things from Grantaire either, because he understood. Mondays were just the two of them, because Mondays meant Marius taking Cosette and Eponine on a kind-of date, and Gavroche staying late at school for the journalism club, and Bahorel volunteering at the senior center, and everyone else catching up on family and school work.

But this Monday was different. This Monday meant Enjolras showing up at 3:15 in his school uniform, a button down shirt and grey sweater and red tie and slacks, which would look stupid except Grantaire was convinced the blond would look good in anything (a statement which proved true when he changed into ratty work clothes, and Grantaire took a moment to appreciate how well and truly fucked he was). This Monday meant demonstrating and explaining and arguing, despite the truce they had achieved the day before. It was mostly good natured, and they had only almost reached the point of explosion once before Sage "conveniently" found his way out of his stall, and they were distracted by chasing the nearly thirty year old quarter horse all over the property. Feuilly's proximity to Sage's stall and the lack of broken stall guard clips led Grantaire to believe that it was a set up.

It wasn't necessarily a Bad Day, or even an unpleasant day, but by the time the horses had been fed and watered and the barn had been cleaned and Enjolras had driven off, muttering about some sort of report due the next day, Grantaire wanted nothing more than to curl up under his sheets and never interact with people again.

But he couldn't do that, because Mondays meant sleepovers, and if he wasn't at the big house by 6 Cosette and Eponine and Feuilly would be breaking down his door, half afraid they'd find him passed out with a bottle of alcohol or pills or whatever because he had tried that for very, very brief time that surely would have become longer and maybe even killed him had he not had Valjean. (He was fourteen, and attempting public school, and his parents had found him and were calling him every few days, alternating between begging him to come home and spewing acid-like hatred, and there had been an older boy with a pretty smile saying he could make it all go away. Cosette was the one who found him, and he'd give anything to erase the memory of her red-rimmed eyes and hoarse voice when he woke up in the hospital. Valjean was patient, understanding, and provided doctors and therapists and restraining orders but the memory still ate at him.)

Anyway, the weekly sleepovers were important to all of them. It had started with Cosette and Grantaire when they were ten, because she still had trouble sleeping and he always had nightmares that led to panic attacks and needed someone to remind him it was over and he was safe. Grantaire had slipped into her room his third night, seeking reassurance, and they ended up sharing a bed every night after. When Eponine came, she was as flinchy and quiet and scared as he had been, and so they folded her into their routine. Gavroche joined them at first, but she had protected him from the worst of their family, and as he grew his pride and the novelty of having an entire room to himself allowed him to sleep on his own. By the time Feuilly had joined their patchwork family, the bed barely fit the three undersized twelve year olds, let alone a fourth teenager, but he was alone and homesick and so Valjean just sighed and bought a bigger bed.

Now it was just Cosette and Eponine who shared the bed, which took up most of the room. Cosette’s room, very much like Cosette herself, always reminded Grantaire of the sun. There was a giant window on one wall, which had remained uncovered until Eponine, who hated waking up early, convinced her to get thick, orange curtains. The other walls were adorned with photographs and paintings, some of which were on canvases and others that were applied directly on the wall. Everything was pink and yellow and orange, like a sunset. Eponine might have seemed out of place among the bright colors, but she loved Cosette and therefore loved the colors and besides, even though Eponine slept there, it was Cosette’s room. It had always been Cosette’s room.

The bed, while uncommonly large, was still a little cramped for four fully grown teenagers. Grantaire and Cosette might have been below average size, but Feuilly was enough of a giant to make up for it. Therefore, they had mastered the art of the cuddle puddle, all tangled together like litter of puppies. Mondays meant Valjean letting them order pizza and eat in Cosette’s room, which was a strict no-no most nights. Mondays also meant childhood movies, and so the opening bars to the main title of Spirit, Stallion of the Cimarron filled the room. Grantaire rested his head onto Eponine’s shoulder and took a deep breath, finally settling after the long day. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head in a rare moment of tenderness.

All four of them had seen Spirit enough times that they could recite it word for word. The passionate sing-along to [_Get Off My Back_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJe30WorFvI) led to Feuilly falling on the floor and Eponine hitting Grantaire in the face with the back of her head. [_During Sound the Bugle_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJmNjutf_bQ), all were glassy-eyed and sniffling. And when Spirit made the impossible leap across the canyon, they collectively held their breath until he landed safely on the other side. It was familiar, grounding, and the small knot of anxiety in his chest eased each time Cosette ran her fingers through his hair, or Eponine made a witty remark, or Feuilly provided Rain's dialogue in a high falsetto voice.

Finally Spirit and Rain took their place at the head of the herd and the credits rolled. The four grumbled and stood, limbs stiff and tingling from being stuck in the mesh of bodies. Grantaire and Feuilly both had drawer space in Cosette's room and a toothbrush in her bathroom, and Eponine had exactly half the closet and an unfair share of the sink countertop. It should have been weird that that they lived so much in each others' back pockets, but it wasn't, because they needed this. Valjean should have been upset that his little girl was sharing a bed with two teenage boys and one of her romantic partners, but he wasn't, because he understood.

Cosette and Grantaire always slept in the middle, since they were the smallest and therefore least likely to push someone off the bed. Grantaire did not mind; he had discovered early on that he was most definitely a little spoon, and his extremities always got cold when he slept.  When he was younger and slept much worse than he did now, he spent his nights mentally rearranging the four, and eventually the rest of the barn, in various patterns. His favorite was a gradient of color, because he was first and foremost an art kid. Feuilly, being a ginger, was the lightest, with his pale, freckled skin. Cosette was next, but only barely. It then went Jehan, then Joly, and then Eponine, who was exactly in the middle. Both she and Gavroche had skin like chocolate milk. Grantaire slipped in slightly before Musichetta, and then Bahorel and Bossuet completed the chain. Now that there were three new members, he would have to rearrange his list.

He knew that Eponine had dissolved two sleeping pills into his hot chocolate like always, and like always he didn't say anything. They had an agreement; he would be allowed to work Monday mostly by himself, but only if he slept until eleven on Tuesday. The pills helped him to both sleep through the noise of the girls getting ready for school and ignore his inner body clock telling him it was time for morning feed.

Unfortunately, on this particular night the laced hot chocolate was taking a long time to go into effect, and so he lay awake between Cosette and Feuilly, staring at the ceiling and thinking that he should paint a galaxy up there for nights like these.

He turned his head slightly and caught sight of pale blue eyes, made visible by the sliver of silver moonlight that peeked between the curtains. He wished he could say he was surprised, but he wasn’t. Cosette always knew when he was awake.

"Is it Enjolras?" She whispered. Her breath tickled his nose. "I can beat him up if you want me to."

Grantaire smiled despite himself. While he had no doubt Cosette would be fully capable of taking down the significantly larger Enjolras (Valjean had taught her a little bit of self defense years ago, and then Eponine taught the two of them the basics of knife-fighting, and then Feuilly and Bahorel supplemented everyone’s education with boxing lessons), the fight on Saturday had already caused enough tension in the barn. He shook his head. Cosette searched his face for something, anything to call his bluff. He looked away first, unable to meet her gaze.

“You like him, don’t you.”

It wasn’t a question.

Grantaire’s face heated and he considered denying it but no, she knew him too well, so instead he curled closer and buried his face in her shoulder.

“He hates me,” he confessed into her hair. She hummed in sympathy and combed her fingers through his curls.

"He doesn't deserve you," she murmured, and Grantaire pretended not to have heard because Cosette always, always had more faith in him than he thought he deserved, and to say so would only make her sad. So he stayed silent and she didn't bring it up again, and eventually her breathing evened out and her hand stilled. Grantaire closed his eyes and waited for the pills to finally take effect.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen Spirit, Stallion of the Cimarron, then you should watch it ASAP. Hands down my favorite horse movie ever. I have the entire soundtrack on my phone. I'll probably watch it as soon as I post this chapter. We always watch it in the summer, when all the camp kids are eating lunch. Us counselors are always the ones passionately singing along, and every time we get to Sound the Bugle at least four of us are sobbing messes. 10/10 would recommend.  
> Most barns are indeed closed on Mondays, because otherwise it's very difficult to coordinate rest days. The barn I grew up at and still work/group lesson at does not close on Mondays, because all of the after school feeding and watering and sweeping is done by the kids.  
> Sage is most definitely based on a real horse. We had a horse who managed to break out of his stall and got halfway down the road at the ripe old age of 32. Little shit.  
> A quarter horse is an American breed, named for being able to run really fast for a quarter of a mile. They're typically known as western horses, but they're not uncommon in English riding either.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry everyone, had exams and wasn't able to finish this one as quickly as I would have liked.  
> Finally, some riding.

On Tuesday, Enjolras had his first lesson at Musain Stables. However, the lesson was not taught by Valjean, as he expected, and he was not riding Patria. Instead, he tacked up Rosie, an ornery [strawberry roan](http://www.theequinest.com/images/roan-red.jpg) mare, while Grantaire watched in amusement.

He hadn't been particularly surprised when he learned he wasn't riding his own horse. Both Grantaire and Valjean had emphasized that it would be a long, uphill battle to get Patria safe and rideable, and it would take a few weeks at least of ground work before they even thought about adding a rider. Enjolras understood that, he really did. But... Rosie?

Rosie, as near as he could tell, was some sort of Morgan cross, with her short back and sturdy build. She appeared to be just under 16 hands, near twenty years old, and had clearly never been expected to jump higher that 2'6 in her life, let alone recent years.

It was a little bit insulting for a Medal/Maclay rider to be placed on such a remedial horse.

However, when he voiced his concerns to Grantaire, the other boy had merely given him his best unimpressed look and told him in no uncertain terms to "Swallow your goddamn pride, Apollo, and saddle up."

Enjolras flushed and slunk off to retrieve Rosie from her stall, only to return sheepishly for help, having been chased away by pinned ears and bared teeth.

Grantaire sighed and took the lead rope.

When the mare charged him, instead of running away as Enjolras had, he surged up to meet her. Placing two fingers at the top of her neck, he redirected her motion towards the back of the stall.

"Shush, you nerd." Grantaire rolled his eyes as she tossed her head and pinned her ears. He scratched the line where her neck met her shoulder until she finally stilled and allowed him to slip the halter on.

"She's just making a fuss," Grantaire said as he passed the lead rope to Enjolras.  "Rosie wouldn't hurt a fly."

The blond looked at the mare, who glared back at him, and wasn't so sure.

Rosie seemed determined to prevent Enjolras from tacking up. When he tried to [curry](http://cdn2.bigcommerce.com/server2400/1us87h/products/80/images/198/Small_rubber_curry__01082.1405399985.1280.1280.jpg?c=2), she twisted her head as far as the cross ties would allow to nip at his shoulder. When he hoof-picked, she jerked her hoof away from him and threatened to kick. She stamped, she swished her tail, her ears were flat against her head and her nostrils flared. Enjolras wondered how any human, let alone a small child, managed to handle her.

"Look, Apollo, she's playing you," Grantaire said the third time he leapt away from the mare, convinced that she was going to kick him. "Her theory is that if she's obnoxious enough, kids will be too scared to tack up, and therefore she gets to sit in her stall and eat all day. And it's working."

R demonstrated with the [hoof pick](http://cdnll.doversaddlery.com/images/xl/0001070.jpg). Using his shoulder against hers to help balance, he slowly coaxed her hoof off the ground. When she tested him by trying to tug her hoof away, he only tightened his grip and ignored her. Disgruntled, she snaked her head around to bite him on the butt, and without looking he swung his arm around in a fluid motion to block her muzzle. She jerked away, clearly affronted, but left him in peace as he finished with the rest of her hooves.

"It's all about attitude with Rosie," he explained, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Some horses, like Mabel or Sage, wouldn't dream of taking advantage of you, but Rosie is lazy. She'll take any opportunity she can to avoid work. Just act like you'll take no shit and she'll give no shit."

"I hope you edit that for the younger kids," Enjolras quipped, receiving a look of fake exasperation. He resumed grooming, and noticed that when Rosie snapped at him, her teeth closed on air. When she raised her hoof to kick, she always pulled away just before she made contact. He grew bolder, blocking instead of avoiding, and eventually she left him alone and he was able to finish tacking up in peace. Grantaire even gave him a proud smile when he managed to bridle by himself. It made something warm flutter in his stomach.

Cosette followed them down to the ring, claiming that she was due for a break. She hopped up on the fence to watch as Grantaire handed him a short crop, saying “Here, you’ll need this.” Enjolras curled his lip at it in distaste, but took it anyway. He showed with a crop often, because it completed the equitation appearance, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had used it.

Enjolras had hoped that once he was mounted, he would be more in his comfort zone and the others could see that he wasn't completely incompetent. However, Rosie did not seem to approve of this plan.

She was unlike any horse he had ever ridden; he didn't think he'd met an animal with such a stubborn personality since his pony days. He walked around the ring easy enough, but when he went to start trotting she planted her hooves and refused to move. He squeezed harder with his legs, but she gave no sign of having felt him. He looked back at his audience.

Cosette was stifling a laugh in Grantaire's shoulder, who was struggling to hide a told-you-so grin. "Kick if you have to," he called from the fence. Enjolras tried a tentative nudge. Rosie shook her head, clearly not impressed.

"Come on Apollo, your legs are stronger than that!"

He made a face at the nickname but complied. This time Rosie did move, but she backed up instead of going forward. Enjolras immediately fed her the reins, but that only succeeded in turning her into a statue once again.

“You have a crop, use it!”

Enjolras looked up, startled.

“It’s called ask, tell, make,” Grantaire explained with his never-ending patience. “Right now, Rosie’s convinced you can’t make her do anything, so like hell she’s gonna listen to ask and tell. The stick is there to back up your leg. It’s about respect. You’re the driver, Apollo, not the passenger. She doesn’t get to ignore you like that.”

Feeling somewhat helpless, he put his reins in one hand and reached back to tap her behind his leg. It was light- hardly enough to even injure a fly. Rosie shook her head, tossing her mane as if she was laughing at him.

"Growl at her, get angry, do something!" Grantaire didn't quite yell, but his voice was loud and sharp and caused a bolt of frustration to run like lightning through the blond.

A harsh, grating rumble rose from the back of his throat and he snapped the crop down harder, surprising himself as much as it did Rosie. To his surprise, she finally moved forward off his leg, dropping the charade.

 _Take no shit, she'll give no shit,_ Enjolras remembered as she moved into the trot. The crop wasn’t about hurting her; it was about establishing the leader. He knew that the rider had to be the one in control. For a spooky horse, it meant being reassuring and confident in the fact that there was nothing to be afraid of. For a stubborn horse, it meant being firm about doing things to correct way. It was dangerous for a horse to not listen to the rider. It was often the difference between having a clean round and crashing through a fence. Enjolras knew all of this, but he hadn’t had to practice it since his pony days. Before Patria, he had a sensitive, docile warmblood- he would only have to think _go_ , and the horse would do it. Rosie made him realize that he couldn’t always count on being instantly respected.

She only took advantage of him one more time, when he was about to pick up the canter after a walk break. He corrected it quickly, though, and by the time his lesson was over Grantaire’s smug grin had turned into something more gratifying.

“You knew this would happen,” Enjolras accused as he dismounted, though he tempered his words with a smile. Grantaire shrugged apologetically.

“Every horse has something to teach you,” he said sagely, causing Cosette to roll her eyes. Ah, a Valjean-ism, Enjolras thought.

“You could have warned me,” he grumbled.

“I could have.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“Thank you. I try my best.”

The afternoon heat had done its best to plaster Grantaire’s curls to his forehead. Enjolras felt an overwhelming urge to run his fingers through the other boy’s hair. (Would it be soft? Coarse? Long enough to twist into a bun? Suddenly he needed to know these things.) He felt his face flush in embarrassment.

“You okay Apollo? You look a little red.” Grantaire actually sounded concerned, probably thinking that he was starting to overheat.

“Um, fine. Courfeyrac calls me a tomato after I ride. Damn European skin,” he joked, wincing internally. Grantaire merely laughed, however, and turned back towards the barn.

“Come on,” he called over his shoulder. “Rosie needs a bath.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short(er) notes first:  
> Roan is a color where the horse has a solid "base", like bay or chestnut or black, but their coat is peppered with white hairs (sometimes an aging horse looks roan, but that's different). Strawberry roans have a chestnut base, so the white and the red mix and make them look a little pinkish, hence the name.  
> Medal/Maclay is referring to the top level of junior equitation competition. The jumps are set at 3'6-3'9, depending on the rating of the show, and it's uber-competitive. Of course Enjolras does it.  
> Like most of the horses in this fic, Rosie is based off a horse I know. Many horses, actually. It's kind of a lesson horse trope. Most of these horses would never dream of hurting you, it's just an act to avoid work. They'll figure out who they can take advantage of (small children, new riders) and then proceed to make life as difficult as possible. They do typical angry-horse behavior: pinned ears, bared teeth, crowding (invading the rider's space), threatening to bite/kick. Of course, as soon as the kid runs to get one of the older kids all of this stops, because horses are smart and know exactly what they can get away with. That being said, that doesn't mean you won't get kicked or bit. There's a difference between a horse you've known for years and a horse you've never met. Horses have varying personalities like people do. Remember that every horse can kick or bite, so proceed with caution. Never walk behind a horse etc.  
> Oh, and I keep mentioning Enjolras's "pony days" because often competitive riders start out in the pony divisions. (Imagine enjolras with paddock boots and his hair in pigtail braids with bows. it is an image worth thinking about.) Ponies are known for being little shits- every child has ridden a stubborn pony. It's a Napoleon complex, I think. 
> 
> A very longwinded speech about the use of crops that probably makes no sense:  
> A crop is very different from a whip  
> I repeat: A CROP IS VERY DIFFERENT FROM A WHIP  
> A whip is long and thin and typically has a lash at the end. They make a cracking sound if you move it the right way. You do not hit a horse with a whip. The whip is used to extend your arm so that you may guide the horses movement better from the ground.  
> A crop, conversely, is short and somewhat fatter, with a square or triangular piece of leather at the end. This is held in the rider's hand and rests on their thigh. This you do use on a horse, but only in certain spots, and only as a final resort.  
> A rider is supposed to work off of the "ask, tell, make" mentality. First you ask the horse to do something- if they ignore you, or outright disobey, then you tell them to do it. If they continue with their bad behavior, then you make them do it. A horse-rider relationship is built off of mutual trust and respect. As written in the chapter, a horse who does not respect his rider is not safe. The rider is not safe. The other people and horses in the ring are not safe. Of course, this is all relative. A seven year old, obviously, is not expected to be able to have perfect control over their horse, and so a trainer would never put them on a horse where this is a problem. For a horse like Rosie (or any lesson horse) the biggest danger might be backing into someone or blocking their path, easily controllable during a lesson. But what might be status quo in lesson could cause major problems in a crowded schooling ring (Me and my horse nearly got crashed into twice in the schooling ring yesterday. I was pissed.)  
> A horse needs to listen to its rider, but first a horse must respect its rider. That often means you have to go to make before your horse respects you enough to listen at ask.  
> A crop is there to back up your leg. When a horse is being particularly obstinate, and deliberately ignoring your leg, you would use a crop (right behind your leg, because using a crop is to escalate the signal of your leg, and using it on the horse's butt or wherever will just confuse the signal) to say "Listen up! This is what we're doing."  
> Picture it this way. In a herd, if Yearling Number Three decides to say "Fuck you, you're not my real mom!" the lead mare would be there in an instant to say "I may not be your mom, but I'm the leader of this herd and you will do as I say or else." and then she'd nip his flank and he'd go forward.  
> The rider is the lead mare.  
> Of course, there are limits. Use the crop behind the leg (or on the shoulder, a lesser used aid that I rarely see the point of), yes, but only when necessary, and not out of anger. You're not punishing the horse, you're correcting bad behavior. If you go to a show and watch, you'll see all of the trainers and experienced riders wince when the person in the ring whales on their horse unnecessarily.
> 
> tl;dr crops are tools not weapons also mutual respect is important
> 
> Also quick question: are the links to pictures helpful or too much?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter makes more sense with a working understanding of the hunter/jumper world. I'll be brief here and explain more at the end if anyone still doesn't quite understand.  
> There are three categories of competition in hunter/jumper or hunt seat discipline.  
> Hunter: the horse is being judged on things like movement, athleticism, conformation, and temperament. The rider doesn't matter as long as the horse looks good. Courses are built simply and look "natural" to emulate riding your horse through the woods or fields- lots of brown fences with gates or stone walls. Extremely subjective- obv, your horse has to be pretty and move/jump well to win.  
> Jumper: Completely objective. It's all about speed and faults. This is what you see at the olympics. Very bright, distracting fences, difficult turns, both technically and athletically challenging for both horse and rider. You win by having the fastest, clean ride- knocking down a fence or going over the time allowed incurs faults, which move you down in the standings.  
> Equitation: Also very subjective, but judged on the rider rather than the horse. It's all about position and technique and ability. The courses get more difficult the higher the division, but it's typically a lot of rollbacks and bending lines, which test a rider's control and eye.

Over the next few days, Enjolras learned.

He learned how to measure out flakes even when the bales weren't cut properly. He learned which horses needed wet hay, and which horses got no hay at all. He learned what jobs had to be on a time schedule, and what jobs could be done whenever.

He messed up often. Grantaire tried to teach him how to make feed, but that adventure resulted in three buckets of the wrong grain combination and a major, accidental spill. More than once, he wasn't able to turn the hose off in time, causing the water bucket to overflow. But he got better, over time.

His next lesson wasn't on Rosie. Instead he rode a flutter-hearted gelding, an off the track thoroughbred according to Grantaire. He was called Shadowfax, because of his dove-colored coat, but his personality more closely resembled that of the cowardly lion. Riding him was like holding hands with a small child. Enjolras was constantly recapturing his attention, reminding him that everything was alright. He understood Grantaire's reasoning, though. Rosie taught him determination; Shadowfax taught him patience. Both traits were sorely needed when working with his own horse.

He learned that Patria was territorial. The chestnut pinned his ears whenever other horses passed too close to his stall door. He charged whoever dared entered his space. He galloped around the paddock, patrolling the fence like a well-trained guard dog.

Enjolras learned to sigh and roll his eyes when he heard the sound of teeth scraping against metal bars. He learned that exasperation was more enjoyable when tinged with fondness.

The entire barn was surprised to find out that Patria had a crush. On a whim, Grantaire turned him out with Asteria, hoping that she'd "teach him some manners". She nearly kicked him in the face when he got a little too aggressive, and ever since he'd been following her around like a starstruck child. He pranced for her, head high and tail streaming like flames. Enjolras laughed at the absurdity. Grantaire, however, was thoughtful.

He met the two barn cats- an aging black tom named Salem, from Cosette's favorite childhood tv show, and Jinx, a fluffy calico who was known to curl up on Mabel's back. Neither seemed comfortable with Enjolras yet, but they adored Jehan. The poet often had one of them looped over their shoulders, or curled up in their lap. Salem chewed on their braid; Jinx left long white hairs on all their clothes. Even Cosette, who knew them both since kittenhood, didn't receive as much affection.

He learned that Jehan was a capital R Romantic, and a lower case a aromantic.

He paired horses with riders, and riders with disciplines. Bahorel and Feuilly both did jumpers, although the latter was often too busy to compete. Bahorel owned a bay warmblood, Wayfarer, who was almost as big as Patria and almost as fierce a personality. He also was the one to adopt Mabel, claiming that she was the perfect size for him.

Musichetta rocked the equitation ring, with her long, steady legs and perfect posture. She had perfected the invisible ride- her hands barely moved, yet all the necessary adjustments were made so that her pinto gelding was perpetually balanced and even-strided. Enjolras knew that this was only possible through a long partnership and hard work. 'Chetta herself had shown him videos of the early years, when Jazz took the bit between his teeth and charged the jumps- she laughed each time Enjolras gasped at an impossible distance. Her boyfriends also rode equitation, though at a lower level and much less regularly. Joly was a nervous competitor, and Bossuet faced an endless stream of mixed up courses and lost equipment. They shared Ernie, an Appendix who was practically bomb-proof and never made a fuss even when the pair's antics edged towards ridiculous.

Jehan was unsurprisingly a hunter. Both they and their horse, a beautiful palomino mare named Calliope, were beauty and grace personified. The pair also dabbled in dressage, moving with a fluidness one typically associated with unicorns.

Cosette and Thernardiars didn't own any horses; in a way, they owned all of them. Cosette and Gavroche rode ponies, mostly, though the former was known to kick ass in the jumper ring.

Eponine didn't show. No one would tell him why.

He learned that Eponine had a tattoo, a name wrapped around her wrist in painfully thin cursive. Azelma, for the favorite child who died anyway. Cosette had one on her ankle, for her mother; Feuilly had five above his heart, for the family he so desperately missed. Grantaire had one too, but Enjolras didn't know where, or who.

It was Sunday when it happened. They were having lunch. Grantaire didn't even remember how it started- something about the commercialization of riding? It was civil at first, not unlike any other lunch discussion, but then suddenly Enjolras was spouting ridiculous, golden idealism and Grantaire was scoffing and Enjolras was saying "Do you have something to say?" in a terrible, accusatory voice.

"Commercialization was inevitable," he shot back, and the blond's eyes narrowed.

"It made everyone settle," Enjolras argued. "Everyone would rather buy a made horse than take the time to actually make a horse, and trainers are so scared of lawsuits that they let their riders settle for mediocre. The judging is corrupt, sponsorship is a mess. Someone has to do something!"

"And that someone is you?" A black, bitter laugh was pulled from Grantaire and he knew he should stop, he wanted to stop, but the cynicism poured from his mouth against his will. "It's an industry, Apollo. No one gives a shit as long as they're making money. Changing that is a losing battle."

The rest of the room was silent, wide-eyed, shocked. When Enjolras spoke he was quiet, but his voice was burning, blistering like the sun. "Maybe it won't be me, but it sure as hell won't be you."

Grantaire was gone before anyone else had a chance to speak.

It was Eponine who found him in the hayloft an hour or so later. She brought a plate of leftovers and said nothing about what had happened. He gave her space on the bale he was sitting on, and she curled against his side, resting her head on his shoulder. For a while, she merely watched his hand, which hovered above a blank page in this sketchbook. There was so much he wanted to draw, like fire and passion and burning eyes, but he didn't know how to start.

"Unrequited love is one hell of a bitch," Eponine said finally. She knew. Of course she knew.

She had been half in love with Cosette for years, but never said anything. And then Marius came and she fell half in love with him, too, and watched as the two became the most sickeningly sweet couple anyone had ever seen. On a particular bad day, she had cried into his tear-stained shirt, _Don't ever fall in love, R. It will tear you apart._

"Yes," Grantaire sighed. "I know."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An off the track thoroughbred (or OTTB) refers to a thoroughbred who was originally trained as a racehorse. There are a lot of problems with racing, the main one being that horses start burning out at around 5 or 6 and unless they were fast enough to be deemed worthy to pass the genes on, the industry doesn't have a great rehabilitation system. OTTBs are typically regarded as rescue horses, due to the high amount of retraining they have to go through and psychological (as well as physical) problems they picked up. My barn has had a total of 6 OTTBs in the time that I've been there- one is in his twenties and still has "flashbacks" about once a year, but is otherwise perfect. Another is 16 and was never properly retrained, so only the older kids can ride her. We had one who came to us irreparably lame, and another who we eventually discovered had a reoccurring injury (at 4 years old!!) and another who had anxiety problems which caused him to colic every other month or so. Basically the racing industry isn't my favorite. But not all OTTBs are completely broken or untrained or psychotic- they're just more prone to it given the circumstances. Also thoroughbreds are hotbloods, and therefore more prone to being high-strung regardless of background.  
> All of the arguments made by Enj and R are from an interview with a professional rider I can't find now (of course). Basically commercialization saved the industry but there are also a lot of problems that came with it. If you really want me to go in-depth about it then feel free to ask. 
> 
> More about Hunter/Jumper (and why I chose who competed in what):  
> Feuilly and Bahorel are most definitely jumpers. Jumpers don't mess around with making things look nice- it's all about getting it done efficiently and effectively. You have to be tough as balls because the courses get real hard and you're going so fast that you don't have time to second guess yourself. Both you and your horse have to be strong and brave and athletic, or else one of you is going to crash through a fence. It's the best adrenaline rush you will ever get though, let me tell you.  
> Musichetta, Enjolras, Courf and Combeferre are equitation (at Medal/Maclay level), all precision and form and technique. (Note: equitation is also the catchall term for position/technique) Unfortunately, it's a very subjective discipline, and body type can often play a role. Being tall is an advantage, especially if your leg is long. Tallness also gives you leverage and helps you cover up mistakes (but you have to be careful with your center of gravity. I'm 5'11 and have rails/messy jumps all the time because I tip my body slightly too far forward). The "invisible ride" means that you don't want to look like you're fighting your horse the entire time- often the best riders look like they're doing the least. Even though I can't imagine Enjolras being pleased with the corruptness of it, he would like that focuses heavily on horsemanship and "classic" riding, which is often sacrificed in the jumper ring (and occasionally appears to not even be taught in the hunter ring).  
> Joly and Bossuet do equitation but like 2'6, which is super chill. That division sits just on the cusp of being competitive but not too competitive. The courses are fun but not terrifying, and the judges aren't hardasses and generally forgive minor mistakes.  
> Jehan, of course, is a hunter rider. As said in the fic- "beauty and grace personified". There are no other words to describe hunters. Seriously, just google "hunter derby". These horses are gorgeous and their rounds are so ridiculously smooth. The hunter world does deserve it's fair amount of shit too, though. At lower levels the equitation is laughable. Also, money matters a lot in this division, because nice hunter horses cost a fuckton. In equitation, you can (theoretically) have the ugliest horse in the world as long as you ride well, and in jumpers you just need something brave and careful with its legs (if the horse is psychotic then so be it). But anyway, I can picture Jehan entranced with the overall beauty of it. Dressage is in no way related to any of these disciplines, but it's basically dance on horseback and come on there's no way Jehan wouldn't be all over that.  
> Cosette and Gav are small so they ride ponies (ponies have a subset of the hunter world. this is the shadowplace). Short, good riders tend to be continuously sucked back into the pony world. But Cosette is totally a kickass jumper who idolizes Brianne Goutal and Georgina Bloomberg and Beezie Madden and Leslie Burr Howard and all of the other badass Grand Prix ladies. (Okay I'm projecting. But they're so cooool.) Gav worships McClain Ward and Ian Miller (aka Captain Canada) but he needs a little bit more experience before Valjean lets him compete, because jumpers is probably the most dangerous. 
> 
> Anyway feedback is very much appreciated, thanks to everyone reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author remembers that there's a horse they're supposed to be training.  
> A somewhat boring chapter, sorry. I promise we'll get into more shippy stuff soon.

Grantaire avoided Enjolras on Monday, claiming that he needed to repair some paddock fencing on the far end of the property and leaving the blond with Feuilly for the afternoon. He wasn't exactly lying; they haven't checked the fences in a few weeks and there was usually  something that needed fixing. He spent the afternoon out in the gentle spring sun, texting Feuilly on occasion to make sure his help wasn't being missed and sketching.

Grantaire would have liked to disappear for longer than a day, because he's a coward, but it really was about time they began working with Patria. So on Tuesday he waited for Enjolras, anxious, praying that the other boy wouldn't say anything about their argument.

He didn't have to wait long. Enjolras tore into the barn like a hurricane, clearly having rushed from school. Practically panting, he stared incredulously at Grantaire, who was perched on one of the trunks with his knees drawn up to his chest- Cosette always compared him to a cat, for his affinity for curling up on any high surface.

"What time does your school even end?" he asked.

"Never. I'm always learning," Grantaire replied pragmatically. Enjolras made a face at him. "Me plus the public education system was a catastrophe. It always has been. Valjean's been homeschooling me since around freshmen year- I almost have my GED. Turns out I'm pretty smart, when my teacher doesn't have twenty other kids to deal with. Shocking, I know." The blond rolled his eyes, and Grantaire just knew he was about to start ranting about the state of education so for the sake of avoiding another argument he quickly opened Patria's stall door. Any conversation was put on hold as they began the long and arduous process of convincing the chestnut to allow himself to be haltered.

They managed it, by some miracle.

The two boys, along with one thoroughly disgruntled horse, made their way out to the round pen in a companionable silence. It was slow going- every few strides Patria would attempt to spin away, or jerk the lead out of Grantaire's hand, or bite at whatever body part was nearest. Every time Grantaire would reel him back and force him to stand quietly for the count of five, and then they'd walk on and start the whole process over again. By the time they made it to the pen, Patria's red coat was dark with sweat and Enjolras was chewing anxiously on his lip.

"Relax Apollo, I'm not going to hurt your horse."

"But he obviously doesn't want to do this. Why are we forcing him to do this? Why are we forcing any horse to do this? Any of this? What if they don't want to be ridden and jump and- "

"Oh my god stop," Grantaire interrupted, partially to Patria, who was prancing again, but mostly to Enjolras, because now he was just being an idiot. "If a horse didn't want to be ridden, they would make it very, very clear. You know this. If Patria wanted, he could be all the way on the other side of the property by now and there'd be nothing I could do to stop him. But he's here, and he's only half-listening to me, and we need to work on this. His problem is that he's expending ten times as much energy throwing a tantrum about doing the thing as he would actually doing the thing. We need to convince him to do things the easy way. The safe way."

A pause.

"You're right," Enjolras replied stiffly, sadly, sighing. "It's just..."

"Sometimes you wonder if they'd just be happier out in the wild." Grantaire shrugged, exchanging Patria's lead for a slightly longer rope. "I get it. As nice of an image as it is, it can't be reality. America has a romanticized view of wild horses and you know it. But the truth is that there's no space for bigger herds. Farmers hate them- they destroy crops. So horses live in barns. But they need exercise, they need space to move around. Turnout would help, yeah, but not every barn has enough paddocks for every horse to go out for several hours a day. And so we ride. And the horses enjoy it- love it even. You should see Asteria jump sometime. It's like watching a bird fly." He fell quiet. Patria, having suffered through the entire debate with minimum fuss, was once again trying to push through his personal space and take control.

Grantaire shook the rope, causing the horse to snap his head up, comically shocked at his audacity. However, it was barely a few seconds before he was at it again, this time attempting to spin into Grantaire. Each time Patria violated his space, Grantaire shook the lead rope until he backed off. It was an easy exercise, but important. After nearly ten minutes of this, Patria was finally avoiding Grantaire's "bubble". He was thankful for small miracles and quick learners.

Patria still wasn't standing quietly, however, so he placed his hand on the small hollow at the base of the horse's neck, holding him. Immediately, Patria danced away. Grantaire kept the pressure until he stopped backing up- only then did he release his hold and rub. Then Patria tried to push through his hand and so he shook the lead again, reminding him to stay out of his space, which caused him to back up, and so forth. They continued this dance until finally Patria was still, and Enjolras was very, very confused.

"I'm setting up boundaries," Grantaire explained, watching the horse for movement. "At first I was telling him that he was not allowed in my bubble. Personal space is very important when working with horses. Then I was telling him that he wasn't supposed to move away, either. It's rather difficult to work with a horse who keeps moving away. You can do it with the horse's nose, too, but I'm not quite tall enough to do that with this one." Once he was sure that Patria understood that he was supposed to stand, he picked up a dressage whip, which was a little longer than his arm. Still holding onto the lead, he lightly ran the whip over Patria's side, over his back, down his legs. The horse had danced away at first, wide-eyed, but each time Grantaire corrected him by shaking his lead, and eventually he settled in Grantaire's hand. He trembled each time the whip was placed on a new spot, but stayed still.

"What are you doing?" Enjolras asked.

"Desensitizing," Grantaire grunted. He kept all of his movements slow, rhythmic. "I don't want him to get excited or scared every time I move my arm, or touch him with the whip."

He did the same on the horse's other side, taking great care to not allow the whip anywhere near his face. Patria snorted and stamped, losing patience with this exercise. Grantaire tucked the whip under his arm and patted the horse on the neck, whispering nonsense praise.

"I think that's all I want to introduce him to today," he said, walking back to Enjolras. "Your turn."

Instead of protesting, like he expected, Enjolras silently took the lead, looking a strange mixture of daunted and determined.

"He'll probably take advantage of you at first," Grantaire warned. "He sees you as a completely new person that he can walk all over. He doesn't understand that personal space rules are universal."

True to form, as soon as Grantaire stepped out of the equation, Patria pushed right into Enjolras. The blond immediately shook the lead and horse back up immediately. It only took a few minutes to convince him to stand nicely, so Grantaire called it a day, saying that he didn't want to cram too much in, especially when he was learning so quickly. The walk back to the barn was much shorter, now that Patria had a newfound, somewhat irregular respect for the people leading him.

Bathing the horse was a two person job- apparently everything with Patria was. Grantaire had handled his share of hard cases- off the track, abused, abandoned- but most often the problems were fear and mistrust, not this pulsing, angry loudness of a horse who had always been drugged brainless instead of corrected.

It was good that Enjolras loved this horse, because clearly no one else ever did.

Patria shook like a dog, drenching them both and Grantaire thought that if sunlight had a sound, it would be Apollo's laugh. He most definitely did not stare at the way Enjolras's soaked shirt stuck to his lean body. Nope. Not him.

(He most definitely did.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the whole process is about respect and personal space. Some horses "crowd", or purposefully eliminate your space (usually they do this in their stall by pushing you closer and closer to the wall.) This is dangerous, since horses are very large animals and comparatively humans are very small. Even if a horse doesn't mean it maliciously, they could easily step on you or shove you etc. Typically, a horse that does this doesn't see the human as the leading member of the herd. The training exercise is about telling the horse to respect your space and that you decide when and where they move.  
> Also, you want to make sure the horse is desensitized to whips. You use the whip as an extension of your arm- you don't want the horse to freak out every time you move it. Very little gets done then. 
> 
> The thing about horses being in the wild is unfortunately true. It's either ride/work horses, or see the species to near-extinction. There just isn't space. Trust me, you can't make a horse do anything it truly doesn't want to do. They can be quite persuasive in their protests. There's a difference between a horse saying "fuck off you can't tell me what to do" (which is a respect issue and needs to be fixed) and "please don't make me do this I hate it" (which is rectified by matching the horse with a different discipline). Some horses love what they do, and it's obvious. My jumper adores competing so much that even he's looking for the next fence as much as I am- at home I can ride around without touching the reins, but in the show ring my arms ache trying to hold him back from flat-out galloping to the next jump.   
> As always, thanks to everyone for reading and commenting and kudoing and so on.


	8. Chapter 8

Enjolras was running late. Very, very late. He probably missed the first two rounds of turnout, at least, and he definitely missed morning hay. Grantaire was going to be pissed.

It wasn't his fault. His parents had called a mandatory, non-negotiable extended-family breakfast, which meant uncomfortable clothes and white table cloths and relatives asking questions no one wanted to hear the answer to. It meant stiff smiles and cold eyes and judgement. It meant Enjolras wishing he was literally shoveling horse crap instead of biting his tongue every time a particularly scathing remark was made.

He had optimistically told Grantaire that he would be at the barn by 10:30; however, each attempt at leaving had been met with a sharp _sit down, Enjolras,_ from his father. By the time he made his escape, it was actually closer to noon. He could already picture Grantaire's face.

When he arrived at the barn, Grantaire's brow was indeed furrowed, his shoulders tense, his lips tight with frustration. This look was not directed at Enjolras, though. Instead the dark-haired boy was frowning at Shadowfax.

Or more specifically, Shadowfax's legs.

_Shit,_ Enjolras thought. The ball of anxiety over being late twisted into spikes of worry in the pit of his stomach. No hoof, no horse, the saying went. If someone was wrong with a horse's leg...

"What's up with Shadowfax?" He asked, voice tight with concern. Grantaire jumped and spun like a spookish horse; Enjolras had noticed early on that the other boy startled easily, but often forgot about it until right after he accidentally snuck up on him.

"Oh," Grantaire huffed, the tense expression sliding away. "It's nothing. His rider this morning forgot to dry his legs, so I pulled him out and noticed he's starting to develop some scurf." Enjolras caught sight of the scabbing skin on Shadowfax's hind legs and made a face. Scurf was more of an irritant than anything, but it was uncomfortable for the horse and a pain to treat. He felt a flash of anger at the gelding's rider; even he knew to never put a horse away with wet legs. It couldn't have been a one-time offense- no, someone must have forgotten the day before, too, or even earlier than that. The fact that the victim was Shadowfax, whom he had grown fond of, made him feel personally affronted, and he could tell that Grantaire was even more upset.

(His face had scrunched up again and Enjolras wanted to smooth out the crease between his eyes and-)

"Do you want help?" he asked, nodding at a bucket which was presumably filled with soap and warm water. Grantaire smiled and nodded and offered him a clean rag, and Enjolras bit his lip to stop himself from asking who. It wasn't his place to hand out accusations and judgements- he had learned that on his first day.

They worked without speaking. Some country singer crooned tinnily from the senescent radio, which was covered in dust and played static more often than not and had long ago suffered a terrible blow to one of its speakers, leaving a suspiciously hoof-shaped dent. It was Marius's turn to pick the music; of course he, out of all of them, would be the one to fulfill the country-loving horseback rider stereotype.  No other rider he knew listened to country as much as Marius did, besides Courfeyrac, who had a slightly ironic obsession with the genre.

(He had learned, on a day when his last period teacher dismissed the class early, that Grantaire and Feuilly danced to Motown when they thought they were alone. It was adorable.)

Treating scurf wasn't necessarily enjoyable work. The white, flaky substance was unpleasant to touch, and underneath was angry pink skin that made Enjolras wince in sympathy. Scrubbing was a careful balance- too much force caused irritation, bleeding, even puffiness, but too little was ineffective. His knees were stiff from crouching so long. Still, the soap smelled like apples and the water was soothingly warm. Shadowfax stood quietly, patiently, his eyes half-closed and his head drooping. Grantaire was smiling absentmindedly now, even humming along to the radio under his breath. Enjolras felt more relaxed than he had all morning.

The phone in the office rang; distantly Enjolras heard Jehan's call of I'll get it and then their soft and and gentle hello. People called often enough that he didn't think much of it, not until Jehan leaned back into the barn. "R," they yelled, their voice sharp and tight with worry. "It's Javert!"

Grantaire paled, his smile giving way to stone as he stood. "Someone get Valjean," he commanded on his way to the office. Enjolras sat back on his heels and watched as Joly scurried to the ring. Everyone stood tensely, silently, straining to hear the hushed words from the phone. The radio had cut out again, ironically well-timed, spitting and hissing static like an angry cat. The stillness was oppressive, suffocating.

But the clack of the phone being placed on the receiver broke the spell, and suddenly Feuilly was running to start the trailer, Bahorel was wheeling a bag of shavings to the unused hut a short distance from the barn, and Valjean was there with his hand on Grantaire's shoulder. Grantaire was saying something, gesticulating with his hands, obviously agitated, but Enjolras was too far to hear what he was saying. He wanted to ask, _who's Javert? What's happening? What should I do?_ But he couldn't form the words, and everyone was too busy to hear him anyway.

After the flurry of activity had died down- after Valjean and Grantaire had left and Cosette had replaced her father as the interrupted lesson's instructor- Enjolras cornered Musichetta, who had returned to serenely grooming Jazz as if nothing had happened.

"Javert is the head of animal control," she explained when he asked. "When he calls, it's usually bad news." Joly, poking his head out of the tack room, hummed the Wonder Pets theme. "Musain is first and foremost a rescue barn. It makes sense that we've got to do a few rescue missions."

"Is it always Grantaire who goes on these, ah, rescue missions?"

"Typically, yeah. Cosette did it once, for a heartbreakingly lost cause of a horse, and it really shook her up. Eponine avoids Javert like the plague for reasons you will have to ask her about yourself. Feuilly goes sometimes, but legally there has to be an adult here and he's the only one over 18, besides Bahorel, who really shouldn't be left in charge of small children." She raised her voice on the last line, grinning wickedly as Bahorel replied from some unknown quadrant of the barn, "Excuse you, I am great with children!"

"Summer camp, 2013," Musichetta fired back.

"That was _one_ time!"

Chetta tipped her head back and laughed, her caramel-and-chocolate curls spilling over her shoulders. "Anyway," she continued, focusing on a yellowish stain occupying a white patch on Jazz's flank. "Grantaire is the best with upset horses. The kid's freakishly good." Enjolras made a noise of agreement as he combed his fingers through Jazz's two-toned forelock. The pinto was fascinating to look at- he was a true overo, with jagged white splotches over an ink-colored base. He had half a bald face, with black creeping over his right eye, his brown eye; his left was a startlingly pale blue. Enjolras had never seen a wall-eye up close- the irregular beauty it created suited Jazz, who was equal parts sweet and fierce, much like his owner.

Musichetta stared thoughtfully at him.

"Is Shadowfax all dry?" she asked.

"Yes?"

"Tack up Rosie. We're going on a trail ride."

Despite all the time Enjolras had spent at the barn, he had yet to explore the property beyond the ring.

Musichetta declared this a tragedy. Apparently, she and her boyfriends had decided to take an easy day; Enjolras felt bad about interrupting what was clearly a date but the trio was so insistent that he come.

"Grantaire's been training you too hard. You need a rest day," Joly said,  almost as if he were a green horse. It wasn't an inaccurate analogy, but the words did sit oddly in his stomach, a reminder that he was  Grantaire's project.

Nevertheless, he agreed, because he was curious and because he had yet to spend time with the trio outside work and Sunday Lunch.

So the four of them set out, Musichetta in the lead, riding Jazz sans saddle. Joly also opted for bareback, astride Quasimodo, a stocky pony whose golden coat and draft-like build suggested some Haflinger blood. Bossuet rode Ernie with a saddle, because his partners banned him from taunting fate by riding bareback- he was accident prone as it was.

The ride was tense at first- or maybe it was just Enjolras, who held his reins taught, his elbows close to his side, his back straight and his heels down. After a few minutes, however, Musichetta told him in no uncertain terms to relax. ("It's a trail ride, Enjy, not Maclay Regionals.")

Soon enough, the trio's ridiculous sense of humor had him in stitches, reins loose and forgotten on the pommel. Each sight sparked a new anecdote- _that grove over there was where Marius had tried to take Cosette on their first date, unaware of the poison ivy that peppered the grass. Bossuet fell off and broke his wrist trying to jump that log. That's Jehan's garden. Don't mess with it if you want to live._

They were master storytellers; Joly's tendency towards exaggeration and Bossuet's relaxed and cheerful nature played nicely off of Musichetta's sharp wit. He could picture exactly where Grantaire folded into this group, with his dry sarcasm and long, metaphorical rambles.

The property wasn't endless, however, and eventually they made their way back to the barn. Their timing was perfect. Just as Enjolras was pulling Rosie's bridle over her ears, he heard the familiar hiss of a horse truck. He hastily finished untacking and hurried next door to the hut- the quarantine barn, apparently. All of the other teenagers were there, crowded into the small space and straining to catch a glimpse of the Musain's new addition.

He was small- not even 14 hands at the withers- but he was by no means scrawny. Enjolras would go so far as to call him fat, though he suspected that the not insignificant girth was caused by lack of exercise and overeating. The pony hadn't quite lost his winter coat yet, and the thick hair was matted with dried mud and god knows what else. Grantaire had clearly tried to curry the mess away, given the clumps of dirt and fur on the floor, but he had given up and was hosing the pony clean.

With the help of warm water and soap, brown quickly gave way to speckled black, revealing the pony's blue roan coloring.

"Sorry R, but I'm pretty sure he's a pony," Feuilly pointed out. Enjolras frowned, confused, as Cosette gave a triumphant _Ha!_ and Grantaire groaned.

Eponine caught the baffled look on his face and explained. "Grantaire and Cosette always used to argue over who got to name the new horses. Valjean forced them to compromise- Cosette names ponies, Grantaire names horses."

"You never wanted to name them?" Enjolras asked.

"I don't want to get too attached," she said shortly and turned around, signaling the end of the conversation.

"Baloo!" Cosette exclaimed excitedly, distracting Enjolras from wondering about Eponine's cryptic response. "His name is Baloo."

Ah. That explained the number of ponies with Disney-inspired names. In addition to Quasimodo, the barn had Tinkerbell, Figaro, and Mushu. No doubt, there were several other now-adopted ponies in the area with similar namesakes.

Eventually everyone trickled out, claiming other responsibilities. Enjolras stayed and helped Grantaire finish cleaning up. The newly christened Baloo was looking much better- his thick forelock was just starting to frizz up, giving him a mischievous look.

"He's lucky," Grantaire whispered, breaking the companionable silence. Enjolras looked up sharply, concerned at his tone of voice.

"How so?"

"For one, he's healthy. Or he's healthy as far as we can tell. We'll have the vet check him out tomorrow, but he seems to have escaped abandonment relatively unscathed." The good news didn't match his thinly veiled bitternes, and Enjolras's concern grew. "He's sweet," Grantaire continued. "He has manners. Nice mover. He was probably a show pony in a past life. Most importantly, he's _cute_."

He nearly spit the last word, like it tasted rancid in his mouth.

"Why is that a bad thing?" Enjolras asked, confused. Grantaire started, as if he had forgotten he was talking to someone.

"It's not." He forced a grin.  "It means he'll get adopted quickly." He turned away, about to leave, but Enjolras caught his arm.

"Tell me what's wrong," he said softly- he meant it to be a command but instead it came out like begging. Grantaire's shoulders sagged and his face crumpled for a brief moment but then he caught himself, standing tall and steady.

"Nothing's wrong."

"R..." A sigh, perhaps even a plea. Grantaire folded.

"It's just... Finding the right person for each horse is hard, and we can't afford to keep all of them. Baloo will be fine, sure, but we've been searching for a home for Quasimodo for months and no one wants him." Enjolras sucked in a breath. The pony's face was marred by a long, jagged scar which had destroyed the sight in one eye. He was sweet and brave despite his disability, but it wasn't difficult to imagine the disgust on a potential adopter's face.

"I mean, we already get enough complaints from parents, claiming he's too dangerous for their child to ride whenever he puts a hoof wrong. No one wants an ugly pony, much less a dangerous blind one," Grantaire finished. He blinked once, then recollected himself and started reorganizing the brushes. It wasn't quite a dismissal, but it was clear he wanted the conversation to be over.

"I'm sorry," Enjolras said, because he couldn't say nothing but he also couldn't wrap his arms around the other boy and make things better, even though he wanted to.

"You don't have to say sorry," Grantaire sighed.

"Someone has to." He waited a moment in silence, but Grantaire refused to turn around.

"For the record, I would adopt him in a heartbeat."

As he left, he heard the other boy whisper, so quiet he might have imagined it.

_I know._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So scurf is just a fungal skin infection thing. It's this kind of gross, white gunk that hardens on the horse's leg- you can practically peel it off in flakes. Obviously if left untreated for a while it can be a huge problem, but for the most part it's just obnoxious. If the horse lives in a muddy/humid climate they're gonna be susceptible to it, but it can also be caused by not properly grooming/drying the horse's legs before putting them in there stall. You can wash it away with soap and warm water, but you have to be careful not to scrub too hard because then the skin is going to be more irritated and the leg might start to swell.   
> COLOR THEORY: Pinto is probably the most complicated color in the world. So there's the American Paint Horse (paints) which is a breed; pintos have the same coloring as paints, but are not necessarily the same breed. Think of paints as squares and pintos as rectangles. You can call a paint a pinto but you can't call a pinto a paint. Then, there are overo/tobiano "patterns". Overo is white-on-dark coloring, and typically the white splotches will look jagged with horizontal orientation. Tobiano is the opposite, often more white than dark, with rounded splotches with vertical orientation. There's also tovero, which is somehow a mix of the two. Then it's further divided into piebald (black and white) and skewbald (any other color and white). There are also several other sub categories (frame, splash, sabino, medicine hat, etc)  
> Some horses have wall eyes, which are blue rather than dark brown. It's common in overo pintos.   
> A Haflinger is a breed of pony that's basically like a miniature draft horse.   
> Blue roan is a horse with a black base and white hair mixed in (like rosie is a strawberry roan, chestnut and white). The effect makes the horses look blue.   
> Unfortunately cuteness plays a role. It shouldn't, but it does. Also, horses who are blind in one eye are perfectly safe and fun to ride, but it tends to put parents on edge. One of our ponies got an infection in his eye and to save the rest of him we had to do surgery to remove the eye- he is literally exactly the same now as he was before, but for the first few months all of the kids avoided him like the plague. Once a girl was riding him and he spooked at something (as any normal horse would) and she fell off and suddenly parents were like "this pony is dangerous" etc. But everyone's pretty much used to him now, which is good, because he doesn't deserve to be shunned.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for their continued support!


	9. Chapter 9

Grantaire hated it when Bahorel went out of town to visit family. Feuilly would sulk the entire time he was gone, and as amazing as Feuilly was, he did not sulk gracefully. There was a lot of sighing involved, and staring off into the distance, and neurotically checking his phone despite both Valjean's _no phones in the barn_ policy and Bahoral's parents' _no phones on family visits_ policy. Very little was accomplished by Feuilly when Bahorel went out of town.

What Grantaire hated more, however, was when Feuilly went with Bahorel when he went out of town. Because at least when Feuilly stayed he'd take over Wayfarer's daily ride. With both of them gone, the duty fell to Grantaire.

Grantaire prided himself on his adjustability. It was generally assumed that he'd fall in love with any horse he sat on, and that was true for the most part. But- well. It wasn't that he disliked Wayfarer. It was just that he was a very, very big horse.

And Grantaire was very, very small.

He could handle the horse fine on the ground. Very much like his owner, Wayfarer had a loud, space-consuming presence, but very rarely did he actually misbehave. However, the 17 hand Hanoverian had a mouth of steel and a front end the weight of a freight train- even a light hack ended with aching arms and shoulders.

Bahorel and Feuilly, being behemoths of men, had little difficulty with things like stopping or balancing the horse on his hind end, even using a loose ring snaffle on quiet days. Conversely, Grantaire had to rely on a endlessly rotating supply of Pelhams and elevators and gags to avoid being dragged around the ring. Even then, he always regretted not spending extra time developing his core and arm muscles.

He supposed he should be grateful for Wayfarer. Patria was just as big and much less experienced, although thankfully he was built uphill and therefore predisposed to a high head carriage.

Enjolras followed him to the ring, partially because he had yet to see him ride and partially because Grantaire needed a spotter, just in case. That was Valjean's one unbreakable rule: never ride without some else watching. Besides, having a man on the ground simplified the process of adjusting the jumps, especially since Wayfarer was notoriously careless with his feet over smaller obstacles.

He swung into the saddle fluidly, and after letting the horse stretch his legs for a minute or so, he got to work. He started out alternating five steps of trotting and five steps of walking. It was an exercise that focused the horse's attention on Grantaire and forced Wayfarer to stop leaning on the bit. Once the horse was both moving off his leg and giving to the bit, he moved up to the canter, though every seven or so strides he threw in a downward transition to break up the motion and prevent Wayfarer from building too much steam.

There was a grid set up in the center of the ring- four jumps in a line, each a stride or two apart. After jumping a few small crossrails to warm up, he began to run him through the grid, having Enjolras raise the jumps a few holes each time. As the jumps got higher, Grantaire could feel Wayfarer's front end getting tighter, his jump more powerful. He could feel the moment the jumps got high enough to be challenging, that brief second of suspension, of weightlessness. His body became fluid, his weight dropping deep into his heels as he melted into each distance, his center of gravity in perfect synchronization with the horse's. Wayfarer's stride was a metronome for his heart to follow, and even as he focused on other things the voice in the back of his mind counted each beat _one, two, one, two, one one one, two, one two three_.

He felt good- really good. Grantaire should have known something would happen.

They were rounding the corner when something caught Wayfarer's eye. Grantaire felt him shift, and then scoot- it was barely a second, but a second was often all it took- and suddenly the jump was right there and Grantaire was scrambling to turn an impossible distance into a feasible one and Valjean's voice was in his ear shouting _don't watch yourself drown_ and then suddenly the ground was rushing up to meet him.

"-ntaire!"

"Grantaire!"

A voice from far away... a lung-emptying pressure on his chest... the ground, hard against his back... the world moved slowly as it rebuilt itself around Grantaire.

"Grant _AIRE_!" The voice was sharper now, louder, fearful- Enjolras. He blinked as the blond appeared above him, blue eyes wide and blazing. He reached toward him and the pressure- oh. Grantaire helped shift away the thick wooden poles that had somehow collapsed on his body, feeling like he was digging himself out of a wreckage. Enjolras coaxed him into a sitting position with a hand on his shoulder, worryingly silent now that Grantaire was fully conscious.

"I'm fine," he said preemptively before quickly going through his mental checklist, testing limbs and cataloging bruises. "Yeah," he repeated. "I'm fine."

Enjolras's jaw worked. "Fine?" he asked incredulously, and then suddenly Enjolras's hand was touching his face, warm and gentle, and Grantaire nearly closed his eyes to savor the moment except his fingers were coming away scarlet with blood.

"Oh," Grantaire said.

"Yeah," Enjolras laughed humorlessly. "Oh."

It took a second for Grantaire to locate the source of the blood, a stinging cut on his cheek previously masked by adrenaline. "It's no big deal," he shrugged, attempting to staunch the flow with the sleeve of this Tshirt- a poor decision, really, given the layer of sand that now covered his entire body. Enjolras made a distressed noise and yanked off his sweater (because he was the type of person to always have an extra layer, even when the weather was verging on warm) and pressed it against the cut. Grantaire would have protested, but, well, Enjolras was suddenly wearing a very well-fitted shirt and actually had a caring expression on his face- R was momentarily speechless.

"Where's Wayfarer?"

Enjolras gestured to the ring's outer fence, where the horse was happily tethered and munching on grass.

"I don't know exactly what happened. It looked like he tried to jump it but then bailed and the momentum carried you into the next fence, which fell on top of you" Enjolras explained, and yeah, that sounded about right. Grantaire swore.

"I leaned at it again, didn't I. Shit."

"What?"

"Valjean's always telling me not to lean at a bad distance. It's how I always get into trouble." Grantaire replayed the fall in his head, grumbling more as he remembered the forward tilt of his upper body, the cause of his loss of balance. Shaking his head, he pushed himself to his feet. Enjolras helped brush the dirt from his clothes and helmet, still looking upset. He gave Wayfarer a pat on the neck to show he wasn't mad before running his hand down the horse's legs, checking for any heat or swelling. Satisfied that he was unhurt, Grantaire said, "Give me a leg up."

"What? No. You can't ride like this!"

He frowned, and checked his cheek again- the bleeding had stopped. "No, I'm good."

"Grantaire, you just had a bad fall. You need to have someone look at it." Enjolras spoke slowly, as if he were explaining something to a small child.

"Yeah, exactly. I just had a bad fall. I need to get back on." The idea of waiting days until he faced a jump again was more terrifying than actually jumping. No, it was better that he got on now, while the adrenaline was masking any pain and before anxiety had a chance to set in. "Gravity happens, Apollo. You know as well as I do that I have to do this."

Enjolras's mouth was a tight line and his forehead was rumpled unhappily, but he nodded, because there is no rider who hasn't fallen- the ability to get back on was more important than any other skill. He laced his hands under Grantaire's left shin and lifted as R pushed of the ground, launching him into the saddle. Grantaire ignored the twinge of his back as his body protested, gathering his reins.

"Besides," he grinned down. "This wasn't nearly as bad as my worst fall."

"Do I even want to know?" Enjolras's returning smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but he looked more settled.

"I fractured my wrist in the schooling ring once. They wrapped it up with vet tape and I ended up making it to the jump off." He didn't mention that Valjean, having been held up at another ring at the time, had been furious when he found out. That time was pure stupidity, he admitted. This was different.

Wayfarer seemed unaffected by the crash as he trotted around the ring, as solid and powerful as ever. Picking up the canter, Grantaire returned to the small crossrails he had started out with. After a few repetitions, the adrenaline wore off and he began to feel all of the throbbing bruises where his body collided with the poles and ground. Best quit while we're ahead, he thought, and swung down. Enjolras frowned at his noticeably stiff movements but said nothing, silently taking the reins so Grantaire could hobble back to the barn unimpeded.

Enjolras's frown was nothing compared to Cosette's, however, and as soon as she caught sight of his graceless limp and blood-smudged cheek she stalked towards him like an angry blond panther.

"It was nothing, 'Sette, I promise! Minor accident. I'm just sore," he said preemptively, searching for escape routes.

"What happened," she demanded in her no-nonsense tone. Grantaire explained, trying to downplay the bad parts (so all of it).

"It was a fluke, he was fine when I got back on," he finished, and then winced when her glare grew darker. "What else was I supposed to do!" he snapped defensively.

"Oh no, I expected it from you. You, however," she growled, rounding on Enjolras, who backed away in fear. "You should have known better. I can't believe you let him get back on!"

"I tried to stop him," he said defensively. "But he said you guys let him ride with a fractured wrist!"

"No, Feuilly let him ride with a fractured wrist. I got to watch the doctor chew him out for being stupidly reckless. R, darling, what is our one rule?"

He sighed. "Always get Valjean or Joly before I get back on," he mumbled, looking down and shuffling his feet guiltily.

"Good. Now go find Joly. I don't like the way you're holding your right side." With a huffy flip of her hair, she  disappeared, most likely to tattle on him to either her father or her girlfriend. Possibly both. Grantaire was just glad she didn't hover. Cosette was exhausting when she hovered.

He knew that eventually he'd have to weather Eponine's glare, and answer Gavroche's overenthusiastic questions, a nod along to Valjean's Don't Sacrifice Your Health to Prove a Point speech. It wasn't that he was unusually prone to falling off- involuntary dismounts were as much a part of the sport as blue ribbons and carrots. It was just that he didn't exactly know when to quit and call the medic.

Cosette was a hypocrite, though. He knew for a fact that she tried riding with bruised ribs last year.

He would be sore tomorrow. Everything would ache, regardless of whether or not it impacted with the ground. Walking would be a challenge, let alone working. Cosette and Eponine would have to stay home from school, or Valjean would call a friend of a friend, because with Feuilly and Bahorel gone and Grantaire incapacitated they'd be short-handed.

That was tomorrow though. Today Joly fussed over his wounds with liberal amounts of disinfectant and ice, and when he bustled off to find a bandaid Enjolras caught his calloused hand with his own and squeezed.

"I was scared," the blond admitted, ducking his head. "Don't do that again."

**"I'm sorry," he replied, because he couldn't say I won't. But his hand stayed in Enjolras's even as Joly came back, and despite the throbbing pain and his injured pride and the obnoxiously bright Scooby-Doo patterned band aid freshly plastered to his cheek, he had to fight back a smile.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a downhill horse is one who carries too much of his weight on his forehand- this is less than ideal because it isn’t balanced enough for difficult jumps and it kills your arms/shoulders trying to keep them uphill. Some horses are just naturally uphill.   
> A loose-ring is the most mild bit, while pelhams/elevators are based on leverage. A tall rider might have an easy time riding with a loose ring because they naturally have a lot of leverage, but a short rider might need more help.   
> A grid (or combination, or bounce, or gymnastic, etc) is a line of jumps set up really close together, so it’s like jump land jump land jump- it helps with body control. They are very fun.   
> You want the horse’s stride to be even when you’re jumping, so a lot of people count in their heads like musicians do. Some prefer to count the beats per stride (123 123 123) and some prefer to count strides (one, two, one, two). I like counting strides, but the numbers I say in my head are completely arbitrary and don’t make any sense but it works so whatever.  
> "Don't watch yourself drown" is something my trainer says to me a lot, because when I see a crappy distance (or worse, no distance) to a jump, I tend to freeze and fold in on myself, literally just watching as we face imminent doom, instead of actually doing something to make the best of it.   
> If you tip forward at a bad distance, as Grantaire (and I) do, it displaces your center of gravity, making the horse's job a lot more difficult and increasing your chances of getting dumped into the fence.   
> Unfortunately, falling of is somewhat of an ordinary occurrence in riding. Gravity happens. Actually, falling off stories are a thing of pride in the horse world- whoever has the scariest, funniest fall wins. I wear my scar from when I busted my chin open with pride. Grantaire’s fall is actually based off of a fall I had a year ago- I was in the indoor ring and there was a jump across the center and we launched over it- I got jumped out of the tack but stayed on, until we remembered that there was a wall right in front of us and my horse had to turn super sharply, actually flinging me away so that I skidded into the bottom of an oxer, causing the entire jump to fall on top of me. Good times.   
> Getting back on is key. My trainer always says that you get back on or go to the hospital (there were exactly two times I didn’t get back on after falling- once I needed a doctor, the other my horse did). However, I can totally see Grantaire not quite knowing when it’s hospital time. If you don’t get back on then it messes with both you and your horse’s heads- a fall can rattle both of you. Also, you wanna do it while adrenaline is helping. Once the adrenaline wears off you’re really stiff and sore. Apparently when you impact the ground your entire body seizes up so even if you landed on say your right hip, your legs and arms and back are going to all kill the next morning. I’m not 100% on the science behind that, but I’ve definitely felt the result. 
> 
> Much love and thanks to everyone who reads this


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras realizes he has Feelings. The problem is knowing what to do about them.

Enjolras had a crush on Grantaire.

It was a shocking revelation.

Enjolras didn't get crushes. He noticed people, sure- it wasn't like he never experienced aesthetic attraction. But he didn't have time for feelings, let alone relationships- he had a horse, after all, and school, and activism- there was no room in his life for anything else.

But Grantaire had slipped into his routine the way no one else had. At first, Enjolras had thought it mere fascination. Often he would find himself wondering about Grantaire's opinion on the latest USEF rule change, or George Morris's recent clinic- the other boy's contrary and cynical nature as well as his sharp wit offered a refreshingly challenging viewpoint, and as time passed they began to argue less destructively. Now he not only looked forward to their debates, but he also caught himself wondering if R was a true morning person, or liked raisins in his cookies, or wrote in his books as he read (he seemed the type to argue with the authors, even if the authors couldn't argue back).

These distractions were slightly disorienting, but easily shoved aside in the face of his formidable workload. However, Grantaire's fall, the sharp pang of fear and then dread as he realized he wasn't getting up, and the unrelenting squeeze of protectiveness in his chest that only passed long after Joly granted a clean bill of health forced it all into perspective.

Enjolras had a crush on Grantaire.

Once he came to this conclusion, he wasn't entirely sure what to do about it. Distraught, he consulted his best friends, Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Granted, they didn't know Grantaire particularly well, having been mentored by Cosette and Eponine, respectively, but he had hoped they'd be able to give some general insight.

"I have a crush on Grantaire."

"Oh my god. I knew this day would come. Ferre, our baby is all grown up," Courfeyrac sniffled dramatically, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye.

"I'll bake a cake," Combeferre said dryly, but his fond smile gave him away.

"Guys, this is serious," he snapped. "I don't know what to do!"

"Telling him is a good start," Combeferre smiled, pushing his glasses up his nose in an attempt to be serious.

"But what if he doesn't like me back?"

A best of silence. His best friends stared at each other and then burst out laughing.  "I can't," Courf gasped. "I can't do it. Oh my god this is too much."

"What he means to say," chuckled Combeferre, "is ask someone else if you want information on Grantaire's side of things."

Unfortunately, that was the most helpful response he got.

"Wrong kind of romantic," Jehan apologized when he asked them, and honestly he shouldn't have expected more than that.

"Just talk to him honey," Musichetta suggested, reiterating Combeferre's advice. Her boyfriends nodded enthusiastically and began to retell the story of how the three of them got together, which was a lovely tale involving the importance of communication but Enjolras was too distraught about his own love life to care much about anyone else's.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Was Eponine's contribution, and frankly he was too scared to ask Cosette. With Feuilly and Bahorel out of town, the only person left was Marius.

"You're in love with Grantaire?" He asked enthusiastically, and _hold on a second_ , Enjolras wanted say, _no one said anything about love_. "Enjolras, that's wonderful!"

Really, he should have anticipated Marius's overreaction. The kid was a real life Disney character, complete with oversized doe eyes and physics-defying hair. (Seriously, he _never_ got helmet hair. Enjolras kind of hated him for it.) He believed in love at first sight- experienced it, even, if the stories were to be believed. Of course he would interpret a mere crush as "true love".  Enjolras probably would have made excuses and walked away right then and there, but he was running out of options. So he grimaced patiently and listened as Marius gushed about how amazing love is, finally breaking in to ask, "But how am I supposed to tell him?"

"Oh." For fucks sake, even his scrunched up nose was adorable. No wonder half the barn was in love him. "Well, Cosette adores 80s romance movies, so she really appreciated big, romantic gestures. We had to be more straightforward with Eponine, though. It depends on the person, really."

"So what do I do for Grantaire?" he asked again, growing increasingly more exasperated.

"Hmm. Honestly, just tell him. He's a lot like Eponine- he's been through too much to believe anything less than the truth."

Well, that was cryptic. Enjolras wanted to ask, but getting anything on Grantaire's backstory was surprisingly difficult- it was as if everyone in the barn had agreed to deflect any and all questions. One thing was clear though- he had to talk to Grantaire.

But when? The day after the fall, the other boy was grouchy and sore; Cosette eventually banished him to the big house after the third time she caught him attempting to lift things. Enjolras was sympathetic but glad. He knew firsthand how every muscle went on strike, how the body became that of the Tin Man (pre oiling). Grantaire wasn't exactly injured but, to quote him, "I feel like a truck hit me and then it backed up and hit me again." Everyone in the vicinity had grimaced and nodded, having felt similarly many times before. Joly had wordlessly pressed the bottle of Advil into his hand. Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief when Cosette finally sent him away (grumbling, hobbling); with his newfound emotions, the hisses of pain were too much to handle. There would be other times, he told himself. I'll tell him later.

It was several days before he got another chance, though. His parents made him take a day off for another painful family event. Patria sucked up a significant amount of his time, now that all of his care and training fell to Enjolras. One of the rescues, a shy dun gelding named Hephaestus for his perpetual limp and scar-webbed leg, was adopted by a woman looking a companion for her similarly crippled daughter- an entire day was spent making him look like a 6-figure show horse. They clipped his coat (Grantaire, ever the artist, had carefully traced out a stylized heart on his flank) and pulled his mane and bathed him until he practically shimmered. Only Grantaire and Cosette went with Valjean when he delivered the horse to his new family, almost an hour away. They returned with unstoppable grins and descriptions of the red bow they tied around his neck and the daughter's happiness and the mother's tears. "They live right next to a national park," Grantaire had said, blue eyes dancing. "The trails are beautiful. Hephaestus is gonna love it there." His happiness was infectious, and adorable, and Enjolras wanted to know how his smile felt against his own.

 _Tomorrow,_ he decided. _I'll tell him tomorrow_.

"Hey Apollo, can I talk to you about something?"

Enjolras looked up from the tangle of wraps he was sorting through. Grantaire's grin from yesterday had yet to fade, and Enjolras found himself smiling in return. "Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about something too."

"Oooo, what?" Grantaire's grin widened even more, if possible; Enjolras's resolve crumbled.

"You go first."

"Okay. So, we're hosting this open show in the middle of June. We want as many kids as possible competing in it, and it'll be really good for them to see all of us showing as well. Also, it's important that we set a goal for Patria. So I was thinking, why don't we make our goal the show? You can ride him in some low hunter or jumper class, it doesn't matter. Whatever you feel comfortable doing."

"That's in a little more than a month," Enjolras pointed out doubtfully, but per usual Grantaire already had a counterargument.

"I think you'll be ready. Patria's a quick learner. Besides, if it turns out we're not prepared, then just don't show. It's simple."

"Alright," he said, warming up to the idea. "I'll do it. But only if you show too."

Grantaire scoffed. "Of course-"

"In the Maclay."

Grantaire was silent for a moment. "You want me to do the Maclay?"

"Or the Medal," Enjolras shrugged. "I'm not picky." Self-doubt crept over the other boy's face, making something twist in Enjolras's gut. "You're a good rider, R. Amazing, actually. You can do it. Besides," he joked, lightening the mood. "Someone has to beat Combeferre. He's been doing far too well lately. By the time summer starts he'll be qualified and I'll have to suffer through one days with Courfeyrac alone."

Grantaire laughed, the tension melting away. "It's for the greater good, then, I suppose. Alright, I'll do it."

They settled into a companionable silence, steadily working their way through the pile of wraps. Grantaire's hands moved gracefully, almost absentmindedly- while Enjolras had to concentrate to keep his wraps tight and even, Grantaire's seemed to practically roll themselves. It was hypnotic to watch; he found himself glancing at his hands, glancing away, and glancing back. He was startled out of his discreet observation by Grantaire saying "So what did you want to talk about?"

Enjolras panicked. He wasn't proud of it, but he panicked. And blushed. And stammered a bit.

"Oh, um, I forgot. Oops." Grantaire didn't seem particularly convinced, but he didn't press.

"Idiots," Courfeyrac had scoffed, when Enjolras bemoaned his dilemma. "I'm surrounded by idiots."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot of horse notes this chapter, except that horses are incredibly therapeutic, especially for kids with disabilities, especially when they see something in the horse they can identify in themselves. I volunteer at my barn's therapeutic riding program and I can't even describe how I feel every time I see the bond the kids have with the horses. If you have a program near you, I would 100% volunteering. Even if you have no experience with horses or disabilities, you'll be welcomed.  
> Hephaestus is somewhat based off one of my own horses, but much less fortunate. Lu had a really bad accident when he was young in which he completely shattered his leg from fetlock down- the vet had to piece his bones back together with metal plates and rods. He actually somehow made a complete recovery and I jump 3'6 with him no problem (except he can't do a flying change) but he still has scars that stretch all the way up to his stifle. We call him Robot or The Bionic Horse sometimes and joke about his inability to go through airport security. Anyway, Hephaestus I imagine did something similar, but didn't recover quite as well, causing perpetual lameness (which would still be an amazing recovery, because broken bones typically mean having to put the horse down). Trail riding would be the extent of his riding ability.
> 
> Sorry for the delay, I got distracted by this web comic called Check, Please! which is about hockey and completely adorable. Please read it so the fandom grows I need more fics to read.
> 
> My eternal love to everyone reading. Comments and kudos make my day.


	11. Chapter 11

It was his ringtone- Katy Perry's Darkhorse, courtesy of Courfeyrac- that woke him. He felt around on his bedside table for his phone, nearly knocking it to the floor before finally grabbing it.

"H'lo?" He answered blearily. The intense darkness of his room suggested that it was far to early in the morning to be functional, let alone holding a conversation, so it took a moment for Enjolras's brain to catch up with the words.

"... reach anyone else, you were the only one I could call." Grantaire's voice was desperate, almost shaking.

"R? What's wrong?" Adrenaline pushed away sleepiness and Enjolras was instantly aware, sitting up tensely.

"Asteria is colicking. Please, I need help." His voice broke on the last word; Enjolras was already throwing a sweatshirt on and walking out the door.

The drive from his house to the barn wasn't terribly long- in fact, Enjolras was pushing the speed limit much more than he usually would, probably shaving a few minutes off his time- but it felt like eternity. He had forgotten to turn the radio on- the silence was suffocating, almost, but music would have been worse. The complete solitude and darkness in addition to this was strangely eerie. Eventually he pulled up to the yellow-orange glow of the barn.

Grantaire was hand walking Asteria when he entered. Wordlessly, Enjolras slipped the lead rope from his shaking hand and gripped his shoulder in an attempt to ground him.

"What do you need me to do?" he asked firmly. Grantaire blinked at him.

"Keep walking," the other boy said eventually. "I'm gonna..." He trailed off, waving his hand at Asteria's stall. Enjolras nodded, understanding the gist of it, and led the mare down the aisle; Grantaire unhooked her two water buckets and set them down outside her stall. Grabbing a pitchfork, he began to remove all of her uneaten hay.

Even Enjolras, who knew only the theory of most maladies, understood how to treat colic. Every horse person did- colic was a rider's greatest fear. Almost anything could cause it. Eating too soon before or after being ridden was one cause; a sudden drop in temperature was another. Sometimes it had to do with the horse’s feed; sometimes it was because the horse inhaled too much sand while grazing. Even stress could contribute. Whatever the cause, colic could- and often did- mean death.

Since horses couldn’t throw up, anything that would be akin to a stomach ache in humans would wreck havoc on the equine digestive system. Often, in a misguided attempt to relieve pain, the horse would thrash around on the ground and their stomach would flip, tangling the intestines. Combeferre, who wanted to be a vet, had gone into quite a bit of detail on the subject. Enjolras was grateful for that knowledge now.

Luckily, Asteria didn’t appear serious yet. She was obviously in discomfort- she’d stop him every few minutes to bite or kick at her belly, which was the source of the pain- but her mane was clear of shavings and she was walking without a drastic hitch. But the symptoms of colic were unpredictable- even if it looked mild, it could very well turn out to be deadly. On his next pass by her stall, he asked, “Have you called the vet yet?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire grunted, shoveling another fork full of hay into the aisle. “She’s caught up with another horse right now. It might be an hour or more.”

“What about Valjean?” He had taken a few horses and riders to a weekend horse show a little over two hours away, opting to the stay the night in a hotel rather than make the trek back and forth.

“Not picking up.”

“Didn’t Eponine stay home?”

“She’s at Marius’s, currently. Also not picking up.” Grantaire’s face scrunched with anxiety; feeling lost, Enjolras pulled him into a one armed hug.

“She’ll be okay,” he promised. Grantaire gave a short nod and ducked back into Asteria’s stall. He kept the mare walking until her stall had been completely cleared of anything edible. The two then stacked a few haybales across the aisle so they could sit and keep an eye on her. Grantaire seemed to lean against Enjolras almost subconsciously- he felt selfish for enjoying it, but it gave him a warm feeling in the bit of his stomach.

“I don’t know what I’d do if she died,” Grantaire whispered after a long, tense bout of silence. _She’ll be okay,_ Enjolras wanted to say again, except the more time passed the less sure he became. Instead, he asked, “How long have you had her?”

“Seven years. I was ten and she was two. Valjean found her shortly after finding me.”

_How did Valjean find you?_ Enjolras wanted to ask. _Why did you need to be found?_ He stayed silent though, and let Grantaire speak.

“My parents weren’t exactly parents of the year. They constantly flipped between caring too much and caring too little- actually, caring isn’t the right word. I mean, they cared about all of the wrong things- how we acted, how well we did in math, how we made them look- but they never cared about us. They focused. They controlled. Or they ignored us completely.”

Enjolras's mind caught on the plural we the same way his gaze caught on the other boy's hand, which was absently rubbing his shoulder. Grantaire noticed where his attention lingered and tugged down the collar of his shirt, exposing the narrow curve of a letter imprinted on his skin. "I had an older sister. She left before I did.

“It was winter when I finally followed her lead. I was too young to have remembered to take a lot of money, or extra layers, but I was small enough to hide in the bed of someone’s truck and they unknowingly took me to a gas station not far from here. I knew I had to stay hidden, so I snuck away before they could find me and ended up trekking through the woods. It hadn't snowed that much yet, maybe an inch or two, but it was still difficult for my scrawny ten year old self to trudge through. I saw the lights of the two houses and the barn- the barn looked safer, less chance of people. I stole some horse blankets, snuck up into the hay loft and fell asleep. I stayed up there for a couple of days, spying through the hay drop whenever I was awake- the horses fascinated me, and the people seemed so different from what I was used to. Then one morning I woke up to Cosette hovering above me; I thought that would be the end, but she kept my secret, even sneaking me food each day. She brought me books to read, crayons and paper to color with, and stories about her life at the barn with her papa. Her original foster parents didn't treat her so good either, so she understood my reluctance to let him help me. And then one day she warned me that her papa was coming up to drop hay, and that he wouldn't be angry if he found me but she'd help me hide if I wasn't ready. In the end, it was the ability to chose that made my decision for me. I figured they couldn't be bad people if they let me chose.

"Still, I was... Difficult, at first. I alternated between worryingly silent and nearly uncontrollable- I didn't know how react to Valjean's gentle patience. Eventually, he took me down to the quarantine barn and there was Asteria, hiding in the shadows of her stall. She was almost all black then, and her gangly, yearling frame was accentuated by starvation and fear. Valjean led me into her stall and said, 'Help each other.' So we did, I guess. She understood me better than even Cosette, and it's easier to trust unconditional love from a horse than a person. It sounds cheesy, but she saved me. I don’t know what I would do without her." His voice broke slightly and he looked down at his hands, which twisted together anxiously.

"Hey," Enjolras admonished, tightening his arm around the other boy's shoulder. "You're not going to lose her. And even if you do, you won't be alone. You have Cosette and Eponine and Gavroche and Feuilly and Valjean and all of the other riders here for you."

_You have me_ , Enjolras silently cried. _I'm here for you_. Grantaire smiled weakly in return but said nothing, perhaps because he had used up all of his words and all Enjolras could offer him was a paltry reassurance. He wish he could somehow envelope the other boy in his own emotion, which welled up in his throat and caused his heart to ache with the desire to comfort. He was stuck giving an awkward half-hug, his other arm heavy and unwilling. The words he wanted to say died on his tongue.

_I’m sorry. You are important. You deserve to be happy. I want to make you happy._

“Thank you,” Grantaire said finally, in a way that suggested he had to force his voice to work. It might have been sarcastic gratitude (because Enjolras didn’t do enough, he was never good at comforting, it was always Courfeyrac) but when he looked up his eyes shone in a way that could have only been sincere and it made Enjolras’s heart clench even more because surely Grantaire knew he deserved so much better (he probably didn’t know, given the story he just told and the pattern of self-depreciation Enjolras had noticed weeks ago but never commented on. He was going to make sure that Grantaire knew he deserved better, he was going to give him better, if only he could figure out how.)

R slipped out from under his arm, causing Enjolras to feel an immediate loss. He told himself it meant nothing more than that enough time had passed for Asteria to need to be walked again. Still, his side felt chilly where it once pleasantly hummed with heat, with contact, and if he made sure to brush his arm against Grantaire’s as they walked it was nobody’s business.

The vet came eventually, finally, when both boys were heavy with exhaustion and anxiety. Asteria hadn’t gotten any worse, but she hadn’t gotten better either, and Enjolras had to bully Grantaire into sitting down while Dr. Floreal and her technicians did their job. He started off with eagle-eye concentration, but eventually his chin started to dip and his eyes started to droop, and Enjolras shifted subtly so that his dark curls ended up pillowed on his shoulder. Dr. Floreal smiled fondly at the two of them (she had known Grantaire for years, ever since she was an assistant herself, and seemed to be a cross between older sister and cool aunt) and Enjolras swore he saw the flash of a phone camera, but he was starting to drift off himself and couldn't muster much more than a glare.

Enjolras woke up to muffled cheering and a fresh pile of poop; a much happier Asteria was lead back to her stall, and the technicians were beginning to clean up their supplies. He carefully (regretfully) eased out from under Grantaire, who had somehow ended up curled against his chest, frigid hands wrinkling his shirt. After digging around in his trunk, he located his old cooler, green and yellow like the colors of his old barn. Dr. Floreal smirked knowingly at him as he draped it over Grantaire's still-sleeping form.

"I don't want to wake him up," he said by way of explanation, and she held her hands up in surrender.

"Asteria is all set, if you want to head home," was all she said, and when he walked with her to the door, he was startled to see the sky streaked with cotton candy pink and gold. After penning a quick note to Grantaire, he slid into his car to go catch a quick nap before he had to come back- Asteria had been considerate enough to colic on a Friday night. Once again, he drove without the noise of the radio, but instead of eerie it was peaceful, serene.

If there was a text from Dr. Floreal containing a picture of them cuddling waiting for him when he woke up, well, no one had to know. And if he saved the picture to his phone, he certainly wasn't going to tell anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically colic is the most frightening word a horse person can hear (colic, founder and suspensory ligament, are the top three biggest fears, especially when said by a vet.) Horse have what is essentially a one-way valve in their esophagus, which means they can't throw up or burp. So like, if a human eats something that doesn't agree with them, or gets too stressed out, or has indigestion, they can throw up and all is well. But whatever goes into a horse's system has to go all the way through its system, or else massive problems occur. And since colic (which really just means stomach pain, but it's a catchall term for the condition) can be caused by so many different things, it's impossible to prevent against completely. There are some things you can do to lower your horse's risk, like wait an hour before and after riding to feed grain, or properly cooling your horse before putting him away, or not changing diet or schedule too drastically too quickly. If the weather drops, or if the horse is under too much stress, or if he accidentally eats too much sand while grazing (yes, this is a thing that happens regularly, apparently) then he might colic. Of course, some horses are more susceptible than others (ie cribbers/wind suckers, which is my least favorite vice because you're literally watching them put themselves in danger of colic), but it only takes once. The trick is less prevention and more being able to catch it quickly, before it gets too bad. If a horse is nipping/kicking at his stomach, or thrashing around on the ground (and not shaking when he gets up- there's a difference between scratching an itch and trying to alleviate pain from colic, and that difference lies in how he shakes) or just generally looks uncomfortable, then you need to call the vet immediately. It's better to call a false alarm then to find a dead horse the next morning. Then, obviously, you follow whatever instructions the vet gives you, but usually it's along the lines of hand walking, not allowing them access to food or water, etc. Sometimes you gotta do a rectal exam, which is disgusting and gross and the absolute last thing you want to be doing with your life. Please catch colic early if only to save yourself from having to stick your entire arm up your horse's butt. (I mean, obviously, the vet isn't going to ask you to do it if you're not experienced, and even if you are they'll do it themselves 99% of the time, but still. Save your vet's arm at least.) If it's really bad (like, almost at the point of no return bad) then there's a surgery but it's hella expensive and kind of risky.  
> Anyway, colic is the absolute worst.  
> The part about cheering when the horse finally poops is written 100% from experience. Poop means everything is working again. Never will a person be so happy to see poop.   
> I thought a lot about how to fit in Floreal. As the vet is perfect, though. I can picture small Grantaire following the vet around like a lost puppy. Everyone in the horse world knows each other by first name, in case you're wondering why it's not Dr. Smith or something. 
> 
> You guys are the greatest I have infinite love for all of you.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update.

Sunday felt weird with over half of the barn missing- it was just him, Grantaire, Eponine and Marius (who kept giving him encouraging smiles and knowing glances each and every time he spoke to Grantaire, and Enjolras almost regretted telling him but he had been desperate and Marius was too sweet to be truly annoyed with). The others seemed slightly unsettled as well, especially at lunch , always turning towards the empty end of the table as if they expected a response.

In a way it was nice, though. Lessons had been canceled for the weekend, and the four of them steadily worked their way through a list of hacks together. Enjolras hadn’t shared a ring in ages- he missed the mild traffic, the thud of sixteen hooves, the comments half-shouted from across the arena or whispered briefly as they passed left shoulder to left shoulder. With so many people gone and so many horses that needed to be ridden, by the time Enjolras fell into bed his body was heavy and aching. Each pull of his muscles sparked a hint of pride, though, and he woke up feeling better rested than he had in ages.

Valjean returned with a pat on the shoulder and a _you did good, son_ ; Cosette gave him a fierce hug and whispered gratitude.

He and Grantaire never really talked about about what was said, or what wasn’t said, but they were less guarded with each other, softer, freer with their interactions. It made Enjolras’s heart flutter.

Courfeyrac came home with a blue ribbon and ten more points towards Maclay Regionals and Enjolras tried very hard not to be jealous, he really did, but sometimes he looked at Patria and Casanova next to each other and thought _I could do so much more_. He’d feel guilty immediately, because he loved his horse, and when he’d look back on the progress he and Grantaire had made with him (they’d begun flat work, finally, and Patria was finally understanding the universal concept of manners) he’d forget that his friends were miles ahead of him.

But- it was his last junior year. It was hard to let go of that.

Combeferre noticed. (Of course he noticed. No one knew him better than Combeferre.) “You okay?” he asked quietly, on a day when there seemed to be nothing to do except wallow.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras replied, because he was. Truly, he _was_. Jealousy over show experience was pointless, irrational, especially since it had nothing to do with skill. He was happy for Courfeyrac. Really.

Combeferre breathed out the type of sigh that said he knew exactly what he was thinking and that he was being dumb.

“Okay, so what if I’m a little upset that I’m not competing. It’s not like it matters. Patria is more important than finals,” he huffed angrily, only quieting when Ferre bumped his shoulder. “It’s just… God, I feel so selfish. I hate that you and Courf are moving on without me and you deserve it, you completely deserve it, but I also feel like I got worse as a rider and it’s driving me crazy thinking about what I could do with a different horse.”

“Hey,” Combeferre broke in gently. “It’s okay to feel jealous.” Enjolras wanted to argue that he didn’t feel jealous, but he did. He really did. “You’re not worse than me and Courf just because you have to take a step back. It’s not you who’s starting from the basics, it’s Patria. If anything, that makes you a better rider, having to retrain a horse like that.”

Enjolras fought back a smile, the black feeling in his stomach finally settling. “It’s mostly Grantaire retraining him.” _Thank you_ , he said silently. _You’re welcome,_ Combeferre smiled back.

“If you’re worried about points, you could always take Willow to a one-day,” he joked. Enjolras snorted.

“Yeah, ‘cause that’ll go so well.” Combeferre’s mare preferred a soft hand and subtle technique- in other words, not Enjolras. The blond had been nearly dumped numerous times for giving too direct a command. It was always the quiet ones who had the biggest buck.

"Do me a favor?" Ferre asked after a moment of comfortable silence. "Talk to Courf. He's been getting worried."

Enjolras really missed Courfeyrac's hugs.

There was one more person he felt he needed to apologize to. Grantaire hadn't quite been on the receiving end of his black mood, but Enjolras hadn't exactly been pleasant to be around. He cornered him outside of the tack room and explained. 

Enjolras could tell by the way the other boy's brow knit together that he didn't get it.

"Success is not measured by points," Grantaire said, confused.

"I know that," Enjolras snapped; apparently C-squared hadn't completely erased his irritation. Somewhere in the back of his head he told himself to stop but it was like a train wreck in slow motion, inevitable despite his self-awareness.

"Well, you're not acting like it," Grantaire groused, reacting to the sudden sharpness in the other's voice.

Enjolras took the bait. "You wouldn't understand."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you could be so much more and you don't even try to be competitive!"

"Excuse me for caring more about my horse than a fucking blue ribbon," Grantaire hissed, suddenly very close to Enjolras's face, blue eyes narrowed and storming. The blond blinked and took a step back, opening his mouth to retort (he didn't know what he was going to say, but it was bound to be harsh and attacking) but Grantaire was already brushing past him. He turned around to find Jehan perched on a trunk, disappointment written all over their face.

"And I was so sure you got past that," they sighed, shaking their head.

 _Fuck off_ , Enjolras almost said, still burning from the fight. He stopped himself though, barely managing to bite his tongue.  Jehan didn't deserve his anger, he told himself. Neither, he realized as shame crashed over him, did Grantaire.

"Fix this," Jehan advised in a suddenly steely voice.

 _Alright,_ Enjolras thought, determined. _I'll fix this_.

He did not fix this.

In the end, it was Patria needing his daily training session that necessitated a cease-fire. Neither of them said anything about the fight. In fact, neither of them said anything at all. It wasn't quite like pretending it never happened; instead, Grantaire appeared to be barely hanging onto a thread of civility and Enjolras was still floundering for something to make it all better and Eponine had taken it upon herself to follow them around like a buffer, though she continuously shot dark looks at Enjolras whenever Grantaire was turned away.

Maybe it was better this way. How could Enjolras possibly expect his crush to be requited if all they did was fight? He glanced again at the stiff line of Grantaire's back, the tense set of his shoulders; he couldn't possibly tell him now.

 _Sorry Marius,_ he thought, stomach sinking. _You were wrong about this one_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to write a chapter or two ahead of what I'm posting, so I wrote this one a few weeks ago when me and my green horse were going through a v rough patch. Lots of projecting in this chapter. Sorry. C'est la vie. Especially when your horse is green. Lots of two steps forward, one step back. Currently we're on the stepping forward part though, so all is good.  
> Hacking is when you just walk/trot/canter a horse to exercise them, not really doing anything productive.   
> It's the second the last week of circuit and I can't tell if I'll be able to write more or less once it's over. Hopefully more, but updates may continue to be slow.  
> Much love to all of you!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry this is super short, but if you'll notice this work is now a part of a series, so you can read prequel as well if you haven't already

Cosette used to joke that she could always guess how Grantaire was feeling from the color paint on his hands. It wasn't an inaccurate statement- Grantaire's color palette ranged widely with his mood. Green was his happy color, for instance, and even though he sometimes wanted to destroy the idea that cool colors meant sadness, he found himself reaching more for blues and purples when he was upset than anything else.

Today his hands were red and gold and shaking with anger.

“I just can’t believe him,” he grumbled for the umpteenth time. Cosette hummed in sympathy, lounging on his bed and flipping idly through one of his sketchbooks. (Eponine had scored herself a detention yet again for breaking their all-girls catholic school dress code, much to their collective amusement. Valjean gave up on making her comply long ago; there were days when she dressed for school like she was dressing for battle, and on those days no one had the guts [or heart] to try and make her feel weak again.) It was a familiar scene- in fact, he had several sketches of Cosette sprawled across his bed, all in soft pastels to capture the gentle light and comforting air. Today, however, the mood was permeated with a thick buzz of agitation. 

“I mean, you don’t just say that to people!” He stabbed angrily at the canvas with his brush, leaving a bold streak of crimson.

“What a bastard,” Cosette agreed. It was clear that she was mostly going through the motions, but she was nice enough to pretend, at least. Grantaire resolved to paint her an apology portrait, one with flowers and butterflies and yellow sunlight. He stepped back to look at his work.

It wasn’t exactly _of_ Enjolras- at least, not in the way a non-artist would expect- but it was certainly because of him. His emotion paintings were always closer to abstraction than anything, and he didn’t quite trust himself to commit the other’s form in paint (or pencil, or pastel, or even crayon. It would be too much like looking in a mirror, and besides, Enjolras had too much passion to contain in a single rendering.)

"And yet," Cosette sighed.

"And yet," Grantaire agreed. He deflated, suddenly, and the brush turned to iron in his hand. He left it in the jug of discolored water (it was a sort of murky scarlet, a diluted version of Enjolras's jacket) and flopped face down next to Cosette, groaning dramatically. With her free hand she pat his head, making him feel remarkably like a dog.

"Mmmphbrrrmph," he mumbled into his comforter.

"Sorry, didn't catch that," Cosette said serenely, lightly tugging on his hair.

"Why do I like him so much?" he asked, looking up. Her face had softened, somewhat, and her teeth tugged worriedly at her bottom lip.

"Why does anyone like anyone?" She replied, enigmatic in a way Grantaire typically associated with Jehan. He glared at her, exaggerating the scrunch of his nose in a way that never failed to break her attempt at an aloof expression. 

"I'm being serious," he grumbled.

"It's a miracle."

"For fucks sake, just answer the question!" His words were teasing, as their banters always were, but his voice had a bite to it that made them both pause.

"Sorry," Grantaire croaked, making an awkward retreat. "I just don't know what to do."

Cosette rolled closer, leaning into his side. Her body didn't fit against his as perfectly as it used to- soft flesh had been hardened into muscle and her elbow dug into the space below his rib cage- but it was familiar, comforting. He forced himself to breathe deeply and focus on the warmth that radiated from her body.

"I can't tell you what you feel, or why you feel," she murmured lowly, her breath ruffling his hair. "You need to decide for yourself. But if you like him and if you decide your reasons are worthwhile, you need to do something about it. Pining like this isn't healthy, R."

"You would know," he grumbled, and immediately winced. No one liked to talk about those first few months before the golden couple became the golden trio. Mention of it turned the stoic Eponine brittle and unsure, as if she feared that her partners might remember life without her wistfully. ( _Nostalgia leaves a bitter taste my mouth_ , Cosette always told her. _You are much sweeter_.) Grantaire expected a disapproving glare, at the very least, but Cosette merely hummed again. Her phone chimed, dragging her attention and her body away as she reached across his bed to the nightstand.

"Eponine's home," she clarified, although her soft smile would have been explanation enough. She rolled fluidly to her feet and gathered her things, managing to ruffle his hair once more as she passed. Once she reached the doorway, though, she hesitated, hand hovering above the handle. "Talk to him at least," she pleaded, and slipped away before he could reply.

Grantaire allowed himself ten seconds of self pity. Then he reached for a new tube of paint.

It took him a few tries, but eventually he forced himself to settle on green. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to everyone who tolerates my rambling enough to get this far. Make sure you check out the next part of the series!


	14. Chapter 14

The horse show was a week and a half away.

lf Grantaire had a calendar (or rather, an updated calendar; a majestic black stallion representing March 2012 occasionally peaked out from behind his door, a gift from Valjean when he had first moved into the loft) he would have circled the date in bright red and doodled horrified skulls in the corner.

(No Cosette, he was not being overdramatic, but your opinion has been noted.)

Anxiety sat in his stomach like a barn swallow, nervous and fluttering, scraping against his rib cage in an effort to escape. Something else scraped at his chest too- something that made his heart ache and that only appeared when Enjolras was in his line of sight. It scared him, sometimes, how gone he was.

Grantaire alternated between thinking about Enjolras because it took his mind of the show and thinking about the show because it took his mind off Enjolras. He came to these conclusions:

1\. He was attracted to Enjolras's passion, the same way moths are attracted to this lamp most likely to burn them. (He took this thought to Jehan, who said in true poet fashion _there is a fire in his soul that melts the ice off yours_.)

2\. Enjolras is crazy for thinking he can pull off an equitation class. He had helped him set a course to practice over a few days before, and while Grantaire was able to hit each distance and balance each turn, he did it all with the fast, choppy pace and blatant commands of a jumper rider. When Enjolras yelled at him to slow down Asteria had flicked her ears in confusion, as is if the words were foreign to her.

    2.a. Asteria did not enjoy slowing down.

    2.b. Neither did Grantaire.

3\. Enjolras was a surprisingly patient instructor. Grantaire wasn't sure what to do with this information.

There were other things, too, that he was too embarrassed put on his mental list. Things like how his hair shone in the light (like a halo, all gold and glowing) and how his hands had begun to harden from barn work (and how the callouses felt against his own, the few times they brushed hands- the new roughness gave Grantaire a small thrill). He also noticed how the kids have begun fielding their show-related questions towards Feuilly, a shift that was no doubt thanks in equal parts to their own keen perception and his friends' interference.

The one bright spot, at least, was that Patria was improving in literal leaps and bounds. Grantaire's breath caught each time the pair jumped. Patria's muscles rippled under his fiery coat which caught the light like copper. Grantaire may not have trusted himself to draw Enjolras but in the corner of his room, drying, was a painting of Patria galloping across a sun-streaked sky. Apollo had no need of a chariot- his horse blazed well enough. The way the gelding neatly tucked his knees and kicked his hind end up over each fence led Grantaire to believe that someone had long ago imported him as a jumper prospect; perhaps that someone had gone bankrupt, or gotten too hurt from a fall to ride. Riding was a dangerous business to invest both money and health in. It turned out that Patria knew a lot about being ridden, the trick was getting him to remember. Grantaire's heart ached to imagine what he might have been.

Enjolras, of course, was ecstatic. When his groundwork had progressed enough to add in cavalettis, his smile was akin to that of a Grand Prix winner. When cavalettis became verticals, and then oxers, and then a full line- well, there were times when Enjolras shone too brightly for Grantaire's eyes.

All too soon, it was the day before the show. Grantaire was hunched over Rosie's bit, scrubbing with a rag at a stain that clung stubbornly to the metal. As he cleaned, he went through a mental checklist, his heart speeding up as he thought of all of the preparations that still had to be made. Suddenly warm hands closed over his, stilling their frantic motion and causing his head to snap up in surprise. Enjolras was crouched in front of him, brow furrowed with concern. Grantaire blinked as the bit and rag were gently pulked from his grip and placed to the side, in a pile with the rest of the checked tack.

"What," he croaked, confused, as Enjolras coaxed him to his feet. He swayed slightly, the other boy grasping his shoulder to steady him.

"It's time to eat dinner," Enjolras said soothingly, subtly directing their movement towards the big house. Grantaire blinked again as he caught sight of the darkening sky.

"I have to finish cleaning tack," replied Grantaire, an automatic response even as his stomach rumbled.

"You already cleaned all the tack," Enjolras assured. "Twice." Grantaire opened his mouth to retort except, oh yeah, he did. He shook his head, as if it would dislodge the fog that clouded his brain.

"What else has to be done?" he asked, no longer trusting his own memory.

"Nothing."

"Everything is finished?"

"There are other people in the barn besides you, you know."

Grantaire jerked away at that, stung, but Enjolras's tightened grip on his hands prevented him from going too far.

"I'm sorry," the blond blurted out, cheeks stained with embarrassment. "I didn't mean it like that. I just... You can trust us to do things when you're overwhelmed."

"I'm not overwhelmed," he grumbled reflexively.

"Grantaire, I told you that spurs were animal cruelty and you grunted at me," Enjolras said dryly. "You need food and sleep,"

Okay, yeah. Fair enough.

Cosette was waiting in the doorway for them, replacing Enjolras's hands with her own as soon as they were in reach. Grantaire was only dimly aware of their conversation as she led him back towards the kitchen. ("Are you staying for dinner?" "No, I should really get home before my parents kill me.") He was too fixated on the smell of warm food to notice much of anything, but he did feel the loss of heat as Enjolras stepped away, saying _see you in the morning_.

It wasn't Monday, but after dinner he stumbled dumbly after Cosette to her room and curled up between her and Eponine. Sleep was mercifully quick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hard time writing this chapter. It was like hitting my head against the wall over and over again. I apologize for the length (and everything else). Only one more left, though! It'll be a long one, I promise. Thanks to all of you for sticking with me!
> 
> Feel free to skip the notes, there aren't a lot of great importance. More rambling.  
> A lot of people import horses from Europe for various reasons. That's typically where one would shop for a Grand Prix prospect, for instance. I imagine Patria to be one of those horses, except he fell through the cracks.   
> Spurs are not animal abuse unless misused. You should have very good leg control before considering using spurs, because rubs are caused by the friction of a swinging leg. Sometimes a horse with dry hair/skin will be more prone to spur rubs, especially in the winter, and it's the rider's responsibility to react to that. Enough said.   
> Grantaire's pre-show jitters are based off my own. I have a tendency to obsessively clean my tack and boots and repack my bag several times before I'm satisfied. 
> 
> Almost at the end guys! It's been real.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it guys! Before we truly hit the end I just want to say thank you so much to everyone for reading this, for giving me feedback and sharing your own stories and experiences. It's been real, folks.

Morning dawned far too early; it took Grantaire and Cosette's combined efforts to shake Eponine awake, along with much swearing and (nearly) a bucket of water. The beginnings of sunlight were just starting to creep over the horizon, frigid air slipping under their jackets as they walked across the dewy grass to the barn. Feuilly was already there, bleary-eyed and clutching a cup of coffee.

Few words were ever exchanged in the first hour of horse show mornings; Valjean always put together a list of horses that needed prep, from schooling to lunging to bathing, and they had long ago perfected the system of silent collaboration. Cosette and Grantaire rode when necessary while Valjean lunged, Eponine and Feuilly seamlessly rotating horses in and out of the ring.

This was Grantaire’s favorite type of riding: twelve hundred pounds of muscle rolling up into a playful crow-hop and a stiff wind biting his cheeks and the dark blue of the sky serving as a backdrop for an even darker horizon. Hoofbeats and sharp breaths and the distant snap of the lunge line were the only sounds that reached his ears. The quiet settled him, and as he focused

Soon the other teenagers tumbled in, bearing a second round of caffeine, munchkins, and extra sets of hands. Grantaire could hear their chatter build as the growing sunlight burned away the last bit of sleepiness. When he finally entered the barn, a now-calm Quasimodo in hand, stage two of morning preparation was in full swing. Both wash stalls were occupied by grey horses, each in various stages of cleanliness. He moved to join Joly and Bossuet in bathing Ernie after unsaddling; the usually mild mannered gelding hated getting wet, and his protests showed in the dampness of the duo's clothes. Flashing them a grin, he dipped his hand in the bucket of violet soap and began to scrub, watching the yellow-brown stains on his hocks fade into silver. Bossuet was in charge of the hose, having been banned from touching the Quicksilver after an unfortunate incident which stained multiple horses purple. Ernie danced away from the stream of water, uprooting Joly from where he was crouched with a sponge at the horse's knee. He jumped away with an annoyed huff and an eye roll.

"Stop that," he scolded, lightly smacking the horse's shoulder. Grantaire smirked at Joly's chiding; it had never been particularly effective in the long run, but Ernie did appear momentarily abashed and stilled long enough to allow Bossuet to wash away the rest of the soap. The clean though disgruntled horse was led to a pair of crossties to dry while Shadowfax was brought over for his turn by Musichetta.

Cosette, Eponine and Marius mirrored their position in the other wash stall bathing Tinkerbell, a small, snow colored welsh pony. Jehan was ducking in and out of stalls with a sponge, spot cleaning the socks of dark horses while Gavroche followed him with a rag to dry. Feuilly and Bahorel were continuing the normal morning jobs, the former mucking stalls while the latter gave hay. Questions and instructions were shouted halfway across the barn; the only pauses in work were to snatch a munchkin from the box in the feed room. The barn itself seemed to buzz with nervous excitement as the 8 am start grew closer.

The next time Grantaire looked up he saw Enjolras standing in the middle of the bustle. He was dressed in what Cosette liked to call show morning chic, his collar unbuttoned and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows. Tall black socks and sneakers took place of boots, as much for comfort as to protect the freshly polished leather. He wore his show clothes the way most people wore skinny jeans- comfortably, confidently- but there was a slight hunch to his shoulders, a darting, nervous look in his eyes as he took in the chaos. Grantaire shared a glance with Musichetta, who rolled her eyes and nudged him away from Shadowfax's flank.

"Go help," she commanded. "We can manage."

Flashing her a grateful smile, Grantaire dried his hands and walked over to Enjolras, who had wandered down the aisle in the same way an unmanned sailboat would drift across a bay.

"Come on, Apollo," he said, grinning at the way the other boy jumped and then glared for the use of the nickname. He grabbed his shirt sleeve and tugged him towards the hayloft. "Let's get you dressed."

"Stop calling me that," Enjolras grumbled automatically, even as he allowed himself to be pulled. "Where are we going?"

"My place."

"Your place is the hayloft?"

Grantaire rolled his eyes at the blatant surprise in his voice. "Where did you think I lived?"

"I don't know, in the Big House? Or with Feuilly? Like a normal person?" Surprise had faded somewhat into sarcasm, but Grantaire could still sense the hesitation in his step as they climbed the stairs.

"Whoever said I was a normal person?"

"Be serious."

Grantaire spun around dramatically on the top ledge, causing Enjolras to nearly lose his balance on the step below. He grinned wickedly. "I am wild."

Enjolras blinked, momentarily silenced. Grantaire used the opportunity to open the door and slip inside. He went straight to his dresser and dug out a pair of sweatpants before turning back around. All of the breath rushed out of his lungs at once and he froze, because holy shit Enjolras was in his room, he did not think this through enough. The blonde hadn't quite crossed the threshold, one hand still caught on the door handle; he looked around in wide-eyed wonder before fully entering. Belatedly, Grantaire remembered the paintings strewn about the room and felt his stomach sink further.

He could see the exact moment Enjolras noticed- he had even shifted through the stack of half-painted canvases, waiting to be finished. There were paintings of all their friends, whether as portraits or snapshots of scenes. There was one of Jehan braiding Cosette's hair, another of Feuilly and Bahorel arm wrestling. Eponine was rendered in the style of Mucha, crowned with roses and thorns. More: Marius smiling dazedly, Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet tangled together by the red string of fate, Gavroche as Spider-Man. There was even a sketch of Courfeyrac and Combeferre, meant to be completed for their anniversary. Everyone was there, some more than once. Everyone, that is, except-

"You never painted me," Enjolras observed, his voice carefully flat.

_But I did,_ Grantaire wanted to cry. He wanted to drag out the painting of Patria's sun chariot or the abstract red and gold and say _look, there's you_. Instead he cleared his throat and said, "It's hard to paint the sun."

It was probably too true, too revealing, but Enjolras said nothing. He merely looked away, pretending to be absorbed in an impressionist blur of Asteria. Glancing down, Grantaire remembered their original purpose in coming up to his room and held the sweatpants out awkwardly.  "Um, here, put these on over your britches." Enjolras took them somewhat suspiciously. They were faded and worn and the letters were peeling off- hand-me-downs from Feuilly, who said he'd grow into them. He never did. As Enjolras slipped them on he searched for his most oversized sweatshirt.

Despite being huge on Grantaire, the clothing fit surprisingly well. Perhaps an inch short at the wrist, maybe two at the ankle. Grantaire had to look away, because here was Enjolras, in his room, in his clothes. The world stopped turning for a minute.

"It's to stay clean," Grantaire hedged, answering the obvious but unspoken question. He himself had thrown a pair of pajama bottoms over his pants. He'd tried to make do without them once, on a blisteringly hot summer day; within an hour his britches were streaked with dirt and horse slobber. "Come on," he said. "Time to work."

 

By the time they reemerge in the barn, some of the younger kids had already begun to arrive. Excited chatter replaced harried instruction in an explosion of brightly patterned garment bags and colorful hair bows. Jehan already had a line of girls waiting to have their hair twisted into twin braids; Cosette kneeled nearby with a box of extra garters, helping to fit the leather straps under knobby knees. Enjolras seemed to freeze next to him like a deer in headlights. Grantaire had been thrilled to discover that around children he acted like a Doberman among kittens.

"Just treat them like small adults," Grantaire had said, the first time Enjolras had stumbled through a conversation with one of the eight year olds. "Except get more excited when they tell you stuff. And, you know, exaggerate"

A tug on his sleeve jolted him out of his observations. Grantaire twisted around to find Marie, a peanut of a girl, standing at his hip with her helmet and hairnet in hand. Grinning mischievously, she held them out to him. With a mock sigh, he stuck her helmet between his knees and, spinning her around, began to arrange her thin, short black hair so that it fell almost into her face.

"Have you said hi to Fig yet?" he asked, combing out a few knots with his fingers.

"Of course," she squeaked empathetically, as if not doing so was inconceivable. "I gave him a carrot."

Grantaire laughed. Figaro had been the first pony Marie rode at Musain, and the two were practically inseparable now. His grouchiness, which was considerable even by pony standards, had a tendency to deter most riders yet it seemed to endear him to Maria. She had met his pinned ears with rolled eyes and gentle chiding, managing to earn his grudging respect. Eventually that twisted into what Grantaire liked to imagine as affection- Fig never failed to perk up when he heard Marie's voice.

"Are you showing Figaro?" Enjolras asked stiffly, causing Grantaire to bite down on a snort. The girl bobbed her head enthusiastically, displacing the hairnet he had been trying to place over her forehead.

"Grantaire, it's in my eyes!" she giggled.

"Well if you would hold still, silly," he admonished, readjusting the elastic carefully. Glancing back up at Enjolras, he boasted, "Marie is doing her first short stirrup class today."

Enjolras raised his eyebrows, finally loosening up. "Your first class? Wow, that's pretty exciting." Marie began to nod again but caught herself, instead humming in agreement. Grantaire finally tied her hair off in a stubby ponytail and helped her flip it up, fitting her helmet snuggle over her head. Beaming, she gave him a quick hug and bounded off, doubtless to begin grooming.

"You're good at that," Enjolras said as they watched her go.

"Hmm? Oh yeah, well, I've had a lot of practice. Cosette is hopeless at doing her hair-"

"No, I mean..." Enjolras exhaled heavily through his nose. "With Marie. You were good."

"Oh." Grantaire felt his cheeks heat and was suddenly grateful for his dark skin. "You weren't so bad yourself. We may be able to make a counselor out of you in time for summer camp," he joked, purely to see the other boy blanch at the prospect.

"Stop flirting and help out!" Eponine interjected as she passed, causing the two to simultaneously jump apart. Enjolras was less lucky than Grantaire, his cheeks immediately igniting like a forest fire.

"We weren't flirting!" Grantaire retorted immediately. It was a weak response and everyone knew it, but it was true. Flirting with Enjolras involved more arguing. This was just awkwardly shoving compliments at each other. Totally different.

Enjolras flicked his gaze to Grantaire and away again, face still blazing with embarrassment. Grantaire wanted to say something, anything, but when he opened his mouth his words crammed in his throat like a pileup on the highway. By the time he managed to squeak out something resembling an apology, Enjolras had already fled, seemingly called away by some imaginary task.

_Wow,_ he thought bitterly. _And it isn't even eight_.

****  
****Valjean had long ago perfected a class order that best suited Musain Stables. It worked, for the most part- the younger kids and their parents, who were typically the least tolerant of the dragging manner of a horse show, were finished first while the older, more seasoned riders went later in the day so that they wouldn't have to worry about helping in the barn. However, as the first round of ponies entered the ring, Grantaire found himself cursing the system which purposefully placed several hours between now and the Maclay. Each time his hands slowed anxiety crawled under his skin like a parasite.

Horse shows, with their high stress and unusually large workload, had a tendency to bring out the caretaker in everyone, so he didn’t jump when somewhere between the trot and canter portion of the short stirrup flat class Cosette shoved a bacon egg and cheese into his hand with her no-arguments frown. His stomach rolled slightly at the thought of food but the warmth helped to thaw the tightness in his chest. Combeferre’s motherhen tendencies had become apparent shortly after meeting him but Grantaire was still surprised when he suddenly produced small water bottles and capri suns from his trunk, handing them out to the now-red faced children as they bustled past. He and Joly tag-teamed the rest of the barn into staying hydrated and rested, cornering riders in between tasks with nutritional granola bars and forcing them to sit down for a few minutes. Grantaire heard the unmistakable tone of Joly’s doctor voice as he walked past the tack room and grinned, mouthing the oft-spoken words as he said, “How many times do I have to tell you, Feuilly, coffee doesn’t count as food. Shut up and eat your second breakfast like a good hobbit.”

Even the seemingly unlikely figures were fussing. Eponine could be spotted anxiously fiddling with Gavroche’s garter straps, even though he was old enough to do them himself. Bahorel and Jehan were both braiding the same girl’s hair, her two pigtails stretching out from her head like strange antennae as she giggled at their intense concentration. Marius, Courfeyrac and Bossuet had taken it upon themselves to give each rider and pony a pep-talk before they went into the ring and listened intently to exaggerated descriptions of every class as if it were a Grand Prix.

Grantaire was grateful for the distraction. The familiarity of it all settled something in his veins and damped the pounding of his heart just enough for his breath to stop catching each time he glanced at the clock.

Enjolras appeared suddenly at his shoulder, causing his hands to stutter over the worn leather straps of Shadowfax’s bridle.  "You okay?" he asked in a soft voice, too low for the horse's young rider to hear. Grantaire nodded, pretending to be absorbed in the length of the cheek piece. Neither of them mentioned that morning. After too many beats of silence, Enjolras slipped away as quietly as he had come and Grantaire finally let out a breath.

****** **

Gavroche was the first of them to show, putting around the pony hunters with Quasimodo, his thin legs struggling to wrap around the pony’s thick barrel. Everyone pretended not to see Eponine’s white-knuckled grip on the fence, though their promises to dampen in their hisses and gasps were unnecessary. Cosette slipped an arm around the darker girl’s waist as he finished his closing circle, catching her weight when she deflated with relief.

When Quasimodo was announced reserve champion Gavroche looked first to Valjean, a reluctant hope overshadowing his triumphant grin; the older man attempted a stoic nod but pride broke over his face like a wave, in equal parts for the boy and the horse. A horse doesn’t have to win to be loved but for some it was more necessary than others. (Grantaire saw some parents who had always flinched away from his empty eye-socket grudgingly scratch him on the neck and he hated that it took a tricolor ribbon for them to accept the pony’s disabilities but at least now he wouldn’t have to hear them complain.)

Joly and Bossuet’s division followed smoothly, despite Bossuet misplacing his spurs. They both finished middle of the pack, Musichetta wolf-whistling each time their names were called. She drew looks from the other competitors but not particularly judgemental ones; in the horse world, they all knew stranger people.

Enjolras was up next in the schooling hunters, the lucky bastard, since he had placed out of the lower-level equitation classes (much to his chagrin, having decided long ago that hunters was won most often by the most expensive horse). Patria arched his neck in the warm-up ring and preened for the spectators, coat shining copper thanks to the liberal use of showsheen. Enjolras sat rigidly in the saddle, eyes narrowly scanning the ring as he mouthed the course to himself.

“Apollo, calm down” Grantaire admonished, even as he restlessly wiped the other boy’s boots down with a rag for the third time. “You’ll do great. I believe in you.” Enjolras offered back a weak but thankful smile, his mind already back to reviewing his plan. Finally, after too many minutes of tension and anxiety, the steward gave the nod for Enjolras to step through the ingate.

Grantaire lied- it was not great. But. It wasn’t bad, either. The first fence was a tad too deep, too dull, and sometime around the long approach oxer, Patria started pushing Enjolras past the nicer distances in his eagerness to get to the jump, but still. Not bad.

Enjolras went straight from the ingate to Valjean, mouth set now with only determination, not nervousness. Grantaire let them have this moment, this war council. He knew all too well the stiff nod of acknowledging mistakes. He said nothing this time, knowing Valjean given the advice that was necessary, but Enjolras caught his eye as he was lining up at the gate and have him a stronger smile.

His second round was better- second rounds often were. Patria got a little too excitement down the last line and Enjolras had to check his stride messily but he got it done and for now that was all that mattered. Grantaire gave him a thumbs up as he circled, feeling a grin stretch across his lips at the answering beam.

Enjolras rode the under-saddle like an equitation flat and pinned last, the judge overlooking Patria’s powerfully arched frame in favor of the floaty and languid hunters, but his face shone with as much joy as the winner’s. The announcer’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker to announce the results of the over-fences, mangling everyone’s name as was the tradition. When he got to “John Angolras and Patria, third place”, Grantaire was already weaving through the crowd of trainers and grooms; Enjolras swung down and strode towards him, one hand wrapped loose around the reins and Patria trailing reluctantly behind. Before Grantaire could say anything the hand not looped in leather grabbed the front of his shirt and suddenly Enjolras’s mouth crashed down on his and the world didn’t quite stop spinning but it was a near thing.

It was not the nicest kiss. Enjolras tasted like sweat and ring-dust and the brim of his helmet connected a little too hard with Grantaire’s forehead, but it was worth it for the little huff Enjolras’s satisfied sigh. Patria shortly became upset that they weren’t paying attention to him and nudged his rider’s back hard enough that they both staggered and they broke apart, laughing.

“I have been wanting to do that for weeks,” Enjolras gasped.

“You’ve been wanting to do that?” Grantaire wheezed incredulously. His hands had somehow found their way to the other boy’s hips; Enjolras’s fingers were still tangled in the front of his shirt. “Apollo, you have been driving me crazy.”

Enjolras, Grantaire learned, kissed like he rode- singlemindedly, passionately, gently, unyieldingly.

A hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and a giddy voice disrupted them. “I’m happy for you bro,” Cosette said, a smug grin overpowering her attempt at formality. “But we have four horses who need to be ready in the next half hour.” Grantaire rolled his eyes- there was never a spare moment at a show when you needed one- and impulsively stretched up to brush a kiss over the corner of Enjolras’s mouth.

“Duty calls,” he breathed, aiming for smooth but probably hitting ridiculous, given the dazed grin that stubbornly stuck to his features. Luckily, Enjolras was smiling just as goofily. His fingers slipped from his shirt to tangle with Grantaire’s, as if walking into the barn holding hand’s wouldn’t be a big deal.

(It was. People cheered. Grantaire saw at least three people exchange money. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care.)

****** **

Both Grantaire and Enjolras had to put up with good-natured ribbing for the rest of the day, and Grantaire officially received the “You hurt my best friend” speech from Combeferre. It turned out that the gentle bespectacled boy could be quite scary when he wanted to be, though Enjolras insisted that Eponine was worse (they both agreed, however, that Cosette inspired the most fear by far).

Their half-secret glances and knowing smirks kept the anxiety at bay, for the most part, but soon he was tightening Asteria's girth with shaky fingers. It was strange; he got nervous when he showed, sure, but there was something about being judged as an equitation rider that unsettled him. It helped that he was sharing the schooling ring with Musichetta, Courfeyrac and Combeferre, but riders from other barns there as well. He knew most of them, having traveled on the same circuit for a few years, but as a jumper rider he rarely competed against them. _If only there were timers,_ Grantaire thought. If placings came down to speed and faults, he could beat them all. Now, when success hinged on an unknown opinion, he wasn't so sure.

There was a moment when he seriously thought his legs would give out before he made it into the saddle, but once he was mounted he breathed a little easier. After each warm-up fence Valjean chanted “Sit up, slow down” like a mantra, so in time that Grantaire felt as if his heart beat had been replaced by the words.

The worst part about competing, Grantaire decided, was the space between the warm-up and the show ring. On deck in the ingate meant having no space to move around, no way to distract your mind other than running through your plan over and over again until your stomach churned with all of the things that could go wrong. A hand on his knee chased away the storm in his mind; Enjolras looked up at him, his face and hair almost glowing in the afternoon light.

“Hey,” Apollo said, soft and earnest and sweet. “I believe in you too.”

******** ** **

(Two weeks later, curled together in the hayloft, Grantaire asked what made him decide to act then. Enjolras’s fingers stilled in his curls as he thought. Some things just come together, he eventually decided. It was like turning a corner and seeing the distance right there, or like feeling the horse soften and give to the bit. Every self-respecting horse person knew that nothing falls into place by accident. There was always a rough period, where you inhale more dirt than air and your body aches in perpetual soreness and the wires of communication are more tangled than a pony’s tail, but you are merely rounding yourself out on the other’s rough edges. _It’s worth it,_ Enjolras thought. _It’s definitely worth it._ )

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy. I can't believe it's over.  
> Except it's not really over! because I love this series too much to let it go! Stay tuned for more barn shenanigans, including but not limited to Barhorel's story, summer camp stuff, and our two favorite menages a trois. Feel free to comment with suggestions! 
> 
> Your regularly scheduled horsey info bombardment:  
> Horse shows take a lot of effort from a team of people before the first class even starts. All of the hot horses have to be exercised (in the from of schooling, chasing or lunging), all of the grey horses have to be bathed. Barn cleaned. Ring dragged. Courses set. Barns tend to have a routine of sorts- ours is to bring about three boxes of munchkins and rotate horses between the ring and the wash stall, having teams of people assigned to each task. It's a very social time, since it's pretty much just us in the barn. Nothing brings people together like bathing horses at 6am.  
> Quicksilver is this special shampoo stuff that gets rid of stains on grey horses. If you use too much, the horse can actually be stained purple. One person I know actually did in fact manage to turn every single grey horse in the barn a nice lilac color. He has not been allowed to touch the quicksilver since.   
> Show morning chic is really just casually wearing your show clothes, but when you're working it's best to cover up with some sweat pants and a sweatshirt. It's far too difficult to stay clean. I also recommend pajamas.   
> Garters are leather straps that wrap around your calf below your knee, basically for decoration. I think it's riders under 13 wear garters, short boots and pigtail braids; older riders wear tall boots and have to put your hair up. Some younger riders have to put their hair up if it's too short or thin though.   
> The motto of horse shows is "hurry up and wait". You'll be sitting around doing nothing for an hour because of a delay but invariably as soon as you want to sit down and like eat your lunch you have fifteen minutes to get five ponies in the ring ready to show. It's quite annoying but it's a fact of the sport.   
> Second breakfast is an actual thing that isn't just from lotr- there is a lot of time between leaving the house and the acceptable lunch hour and it's very important to have something substantial between the two.   
> Unfortunately, for horses with bad reputations and/or disabilities, a lot can hinge on a ribbon. They don't get to make mistakes (read: act like a horse) because otherwise people will be scared to ride them. Our resident one-eyed wonder wasn't trusted by the parents and half of the kids until he won champion at a show.   
> There's lots of stress involved in competing. Schooling rings are crazy crowded and no one seems to know how to call out where they're going and the courses always seem super hard and if you're doing something new it's even worse. There's so much that can go wrong you almost can't stop imagining new things. But even if things go bad they could always be worse so remember to pat your horse when you leave the ring because they could have killed you. 
> 
> I think that's it. Again, much thanks to everyone! So much love for all of you. Keep an eye out for more stories and please let me know what you think!


End file.
